LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

GEORGE   COBB 


UCSB   LIBRARY 


MAVERICKS 


THE    RECORDING   SPOOK. 


MAVERICKS 

SHORT    STORIES     ROUNDED     UP 

by 

PUCK'S    AUTHORS 


illustrated  by 
PUCK'S    ARTISTS 


PUCK 

KEPPLER   &   SCHWARZMANN 

NEW  YORK 

1892 


Copyright  1892  by  KEPFLER  &  SCHWAKZMANN 


TO    PUCK'S    READERS 


CONTENTS 

Page 

A  Modern  Hans  Sachs W.  J.  Henderson       i 

Chesterfield's  Postal-Cards  to  His  Son Brander  Matthews     13 

Misther  Handhrigan's  Love  Story Madeline  S.  Bridges     23 

Old   Jonesy Walter  Learned    31 

The  Romance  of  a  Spotted  Man William  Wallace  Cook    43 

Recollections  of  a  Busy  Life Williston  Fisli     57 

The  Wight  that  Quailed Kate  VV.  Rider    71 

Biddy's  Dream George  H.  Jessop    ^3 

True  Love's  Triumph If.  L.   Wilson    91 

Aunt  Mary's  Obituary James  L.  Ford    99 

Internecine   Comparison James  S.  Goodwin  109 

A  Drawn  Battle Tudor  Jetiks  117 

The  Magic  City "  Sidney"  127 

Mr.   Wilkenning's  Hobby C.  If.  Augur  135 

The  Cashier  and  the  Burglar Thomas  Wharton  149 

A   Timely  Hint Harry  Romaine  161 

A  Brilliant  Idea Flavcl  S.  Mines  171 

The  Man  With  the  Black  Crape  Mask R.  K.  Miuiki/trick  181 

The  Recording  Spook H.  C.  Bitniier  193 


A   MODERN    HANS   SACHS. 


A    MODERN    HANS    SACHS. 

IT  WAS  NOT  Frederick  Treble's  fault  that  he  fell  in  love 
with  Amalie  Knecht. 

Providence,  in  its  inscrutable  wisdom,  always  makes 
a  tenor  in  the  image  of  man.  Frederick  was  a  tenor, 
and  having  been  made  according  to  the  customary  plans 
and  specifications  of  Providence,  he  had  eyes,  ears  and 
a  heart. 

The  girl  was  there ;  he  saw  her.  He  could  n't  help 
seeing  her  unless  he  shut  his  eyes;  and,  of  course,  he 
never  wished  to  do  that. 

He  heard  her,  too.  And  with  his  musically  trained 
ear  he  noted  that  her  laugh  was  an  ascending  chromatic 
scale,  ending  on  a  peculiarly  piquant  G  sharp. 

So  he  fell  in  love  with  her.  And  I,  for  one,  do  not 
see  how  he  could  help  it. 

He  saw  her  every  day ;  for  he  lived  in  the  same 
house  as  she  did.  To  be  sure,  his  apartment  was  just 
under  the  chimney,  while  her  father  and  herself  oc- 
cupied the  floor  behind  the  front  door. 

But  love  laughs  at  four  flights  of  stairs.  Why, 
Frederick's  heart,  every  time  ha  heard  her  laugh,  used 


MAVERICKS. 


to  fall  down  those  four  flights  of  stairs,  bumpetty-bump, 
to  lie  at  her  feet.  It  was  all  covered  with  bruises  of 
love,  that  heart  of  Frederick's ;  and  still  it  kept  on  beat- 
ing away,  for  her,  for  her. 

But  Papa  Knecht  would  not  have  it.      He  was  will- 
ing to  admit  that  Frederick  was  a  "nice"  young  man 
and  could  sing;   but  he  did  not  seem  to  be  able 
to  sing  for  dollars.      Papa  Knecht  had  lots  of 
dollars.    Some  of  them  had  been  left  to  him 
by  Grandpa'pa  Knecht,  who  came  over 
years  and  years  ago ;   and  the  rest  Papa 
Knecht  had  got  by  planting  Grandpapa 
Knecht's  harvest  in  good  soil  and  tend- 
ing it  while  it  grew. 

Papa  Knecht  loved  music,  like  a  good 
German,    and    he    liked   to  hear   tencrs 
sing;  but  he  did  not  like   to  have  them 
marry  his  daughter  unless  they  got  very 
large  salaries   and   plenty  of  free  adver- 
tising in  the  newspapers.     Frederick  got 
fifteen  dollars  a  week  for  singing  in  the 
chorus,  and  did  not  even  have  his  name 
in  the  programme.      Papa  Knecht  did  not  like  that. 
Hans  Sachs  said  Papa  Knecht  was  right. 
His  name  was  not  Hans  Sachs.      It  was  Jacob  Spie- 
gelheim ;    but  that  is  not  a  pretty  name,  so  we  shall  call 
him   Hans  Sachs.      He  was  not  a  poet;   but  a  cobbler, 
and  a  right-good  cobbler,  too.      He  cobbled  in  the  base- 
ment of  the  house  in  which  Amalie  and  Frederick  lived, 
and  he  knew  what  was  going  on.   For  the  matter  of  that, 


A    MODERN  HANS   SACHS.  3 

he  knew  everything  that  was  going  on  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  but  we  shall  say  nothing  about  that. 

It  was  Hans  Sachs  who  found  out  that  there  was  to 
be  a  great  prize  singing  contest  in  Wiehawken.  It  was 
he  who  found  out  that  the  manager  of  the  Delicatessen 
Opera  Company  had  announced  that  if  the  prize  was 
won  by  a  tenor,  he  would  offer  him  a  good  engagement. 
It  was  he  who  finally  induced  Frederick  to  enter  the 
contest;  though  it  must  not  be  denied  that  Amalie 
temporarily  suppressed  the  laugh  and  added  a  few  in- 
fluential tears  to  Hans's  arguments.  And  it  was  Hans 
Sachs  who  induced  Papa  Knecht  to  go  with  his  daughter 
to  the  singing  contest. 

Hans  Sachs  shut  up  his  shop  and  went,  too. 

It  was  a  very  great  contest.  First,  a  little  weazened 
man,  with  yellow  eyes  and  a  goat's  beard,  took  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  to  read  the  conditions  in  a  voice 
which  sounded  like  the  squeak  of  a  toy  chicken. 

No  one .  heard  the  conditions ;  but  that  made  no 
difference ;  the  contest  was  just  as  fierce. 

The  first  singer  was  a  tenor  with  a  voice  like  a 
superannuated  flute,  and  he  sang,  "  Let  Me  Like  a 
Soldier  Fall."  He  fell  more  like  a  raw  oyster. 

The  next  was  a  sub-cutaneous  bass ;  he  made  your 
flesh  creep.  He  sang  "  Ohe,  Mama!"  It  was  very 
touching.  Then  came  a  baritone,  whose  vocal  chords 
had  been  transformed,  by  years  of  application  to  the 
flowing  bowl,  into  a  long-distance  telephone,  so  that  his 
voice  sounded  as  if  it  came  from  Chicago.  He  sang 
"The  Christmas  Tree." 


MA  VER1CKS. 


There  were  several  more  with  voices  that  could  not 
be  classed  —  except,  possibly,  as  glassware  —  and  Hans 
Sachs  began  to  be  tired. 

"  Of  somepotty  don'd  got  dot  prize  putty  soon,"  he 
said,  "I  vill  hef  to  gone  und  god  me  ein  shchooner." 
"Wait  a  little,"  said  Papa  Knecht,  whose  dialect 
had  been  mellowed  by  being  filtered  through 
a  previous  generation. 

The  next  singer  was  a  baritone,  and  he 
knew  his  business.  He  sang  "  The  Yeo- 
man's Wedding  Song"  in  a  style  that  car- 
ried away  the  audience  and  the  judges. 

So,  when  poor  Frederick  came  out  next, 
and  with  his  lovely  tenor  voice  sang  Mo- 
zart's "Violets,"  he  made  the  assembly  sad. 
The  judges  gave  the  prize  to  the  bari- 
tone ;  the  opera  manager  went  off  in  a  huff ; 
Papa    Knecht    smiled    a   two-edged    smile, 
tucked   his   daughter   under   his   arm   and  went  home ; 
and  Hans  Sachs  went  and  drank   "  drei  shchooner." 

The    next   morning,    Frederick    walked   into    Hans 
Sachs's  shop  and  sat  down  in  a  corner,  whence  he  gazed 
upon  Hans  with  an   expression    more    melancholy  than 
that  of  an  overripe  melon  left  drying  on  the  vine. 
"  Ach,   Himmel !"  sighed  Sachs. 
"Oh,    clear!"    sighed    Frederick;    "that   was   fine 
advice  you   gave  me,  Meister." 

"  Dot    atvice    don'd    got    noddings    wrong    mit    it. 
Abcr  you   vos  ein   jump." 
"  A  what?  " 


A    MODERN  HANS    SACHS.  5 

"  Ein  jump  —  ein  Esel.  Vat  for  you  sings  dot  put- 
me-in-mein-grafe  kind  of  ein  song  for !  Don'd  you  got 
no  senses,  at  all?  Vot  you  oxpect?" 

"It  is  a  lovely  song,  Meister,"  said  Frederick; 
"the  first  art-song  ever  written." 

"Yah,  yah,  ich  weiss  —  aber  id  vos  too  goot !  Vat 
for  you  trow  away  high  art  on  dose  tuffers  ? " 

"  I  trust  I  am  always  true  to  my  art." 

"  By  chimineddy !  You  'd  pedder  bin  drue  to 
Amalie." 

"  Why,  Meister,  I  am  !  " 

"  Nein  !  You  can'd  bin  drue  to  art  and  her,  too. 
Of  you  vant  dot  gel,  dot  beaudiful,  heafenly  anchel,  you 
must  shtop  singin'  vor  art  und  sing  vor  tollars. " 

"  O  Meister  !      Must  I  do  that  ?  " 

"You  ped  your  sveet  life!  Can  you  ein  high  C 
sing?" 

"I  can  sing,"  replied  Frederick,  proudly,  "a  high 
C  that  will  put  the  gas  out." 

"  Den  vat  for  you  don'd  do  dot?" 

"What,  put  the  gas  out?" 

"Nein;  nein  !   sing  your  high  C." 

"Where,  and  when?" 

"Leaf  dot  to  me;    I  fix  dot." 

Hans  Sachs  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  went  to 
a  musical  agent  in  Union  Square,  and  told  him  he  had 
discovered  a  tenor  who  could  sing  a  tremendous  high  C. 
The  musical  agent  sent  for  Frederick,  heard  him  sing 
it,  and  promptly  secured  him  an  engagement  to  sing  at 
a  Sunday  night  concert. 


MA  VERICKS. 


Hans  knew  the  announcement  of  a  new  tenor,  with 
a  high  C  attachment,  would  induce  the  manager  of  the 
Delicatessen  Opera  Company  to  attend  the  concert.    But 
he  could  not  induce  Papa  Knecht  to  go. 
No ;    Papa  Knecht  had  lost  all  interest  in 
He  was  now  looking  for  a  nice, 
young    society    man,    who    was 
blase  and  ready  to  settle  down  and 
to  introduce  a  wife  into  his  charm- 
ed  circle.     Hans  Sachs  shook  his 
head.      Amalie  went    to   his  shop 
and  wept. 

"O  Meister !  "  she  said,  sob- 
bing; "what  has  become  of  Fred- 
erick? I  haven't  seen  him  since 
the  contest." 

"He  vas  all  righd,"  said  Hans; 
"und    he    vas    godding    reatty    to 
I  vas  lookin'  oud  vor  dot." 
"O   Meister!"  she    said,    falling   upon   his    neck; 
"you  have  been   our   true   friend." 

"  Dere,  dere,"  he  said,  pushing  her  away  some- 
what hastily;  "don't  do  dot;  you  shpiles  my  gollar." 

And  as  he  did  not  have  one  on,  that  made  Amalie 
smile  through  her  tears,  so  that  her  face  looked  like  the 
fairy  scene  coming  out  from  behind  the  cloud-drop  in 
the  last  act  of  a  pantomime.  Hans  Sachs  turned  away 
and  sighed  as  she  left  the  shop. 

On  Sunday  night,  Hans  dressed  himself  in  his  finest 
and  went  to  the  concert.  No  doubt  it  was  an  interesting 


susprise  eferypotty. 


A    MODERN    HANS    SACHS. 


entertainment.  No  doubt  the  programme  was,  as  the 
daily  papers  said,  next  morning,  "long  and  varied."  But 
Sachs  could  see  only  one  announcement,  which  read  thus : 

6.     "  Di  quella  pira'V'^  Trovatore" ) . . . . VERDI. 

SIGNOR  FREDERICO  PREBELI.IO. 
(His   First   Appearance    in    America.) 

"Yah,  yah,"  he  said  to  himself;  "dot  ish  righd. 
Now  he  vill  ein  gross  sugcess  make." 

The  eventful  moment,  big  with  fate,  finally  arrived. 

Frederick  had  insisted  on  being  allowed  to  preface 
the  "  Di  quella  pira "  with  the  "Ah,  si  ben  mio," 
passing  from  one  to  the  other  without  a  break. 

That  was  for  the  critics. 

The  audience  did   not  care   much  about 
the  "Ah,  si,"  but  when  the  orchestra  began 
the   familiar  two    measures   of  introduction 
to   the  high  C  aria,   there  was  a  flutter  of 
expectation.     . 

Frederick  dashed  into  the  aria  boldly. 
When  the  time  for  the  high  C  came,  he 
took  it  at  the  back  of  the  stage  and  walked 
down  to  the  foot-lights  with  it.  He  shook  it 
as  a  dog  shakes  a  rat,  and  when  he  retired, 
the  audience  screamed  with  delight.  They 
called  him  out  and  made  him  do  it  over  — 
and  again  —  and  again  —  and  a  fourth  time,  before  they 
would  let  him  go. 

"Dot  's  nod  art,"  said  Hans  Sachs,  smiling;  "dot 
's  peesness. " 

And  then  he  went  home, 


8  MA  VERICKS. 

The  next  morning,  he,  Frederick  and  Amalie,  sat  in 
his  shop  and  read  all  the  morning  papers.  With  one 
accord  they  declared  that  Frederick  had  no  art,  that  he 
had  only  one  good  note,  (the  high  C,)  and  that  he  had 
achieved  a  phenomenal  hit  with  the  audience.  Frederick 
was  half  wild  with  mortification.  Amalie  wept  on  Sachs's 
collarless  neck.  But  Sachs  said : 

"Vat  do  you  vand?  Dot  von  node,  dot  high  C,  is 
goot  vor  hundreds  of  tollars  efery  veek.  Vaid  a  bit." 

They  did  wait.  They  waited  two  days,  and  no  offers 
came  for  Frederick.  Sachs  was  troubled.  He  declared 
that  the  managers  were  holding  off  for  fear  they  would 
have  to  give  too  high  a  salary.  Finally  he  advised  Fred- 
erick to  call  on  the  Delicatessen  manager. 

He  did  so. 

The  manager  wanted  him  badly,  but  he  pretended 
he  did  n't.  He  would  not  make  an  offer,  though  he  said 
he  would  be  willing  to  engage  Frederick  at  a  reason- 
able salary. 

In  despair  the  young  tenor  arose  and  left  the  office, 
saying: 

'•'I  won't  take  a  cent  less  than  seventy-five  dollars  a 
night.  I  'm  worth  that  or  nothing." 

When  he  went  home,  he  kept  away  from  Sachs. 
He  saw  Amalie  and  told  her  all. 

"And  now,  my  own  dear  little  girl,"  he  said; 
"there  is  but  one  road  for  us  to  happiness." 

After  that,  their  conversation  fell  into  a  whisper. 
They  whispered  upstairs  and  down,  and  Sachs  saw  them. 

"  Dere  vas   some   mischiefs   prewing,"   he   said    tq 


A    MODERN   HANS   SACHS.  g 

himself.      "  Dot  poy  don'd  come  near  me,  und  now  dey 
vispers.      Veil,  I  ped  you  I  keeps  mine  eyes  oben." 

That  night,  hiding  in  his  shop,  he  heard  the  front 
door  open  and  close  very  softly,  and  the  next  moment 
voices  murmuring  in  front  of  his  basement  window. 
Then  he  threw  open  the  shutter,  and  a  stream  of  light 
shot  out  and  illumined  the  figures  of  Frederick  and 
Amalie,  each  carrying  a  small  satchel.  Hans  Sachs  was 
in  the  street  in  an  instant. 

"  Nein  ;  nein  !  "  he  said ;  "  you  vos  going  do  elobe. 
Dot  von'd  do." 

"We  must.  There  is  no  other  way  left,"  said 
Frederick. 

"  O  Meister !  "  sobbed  Amalie,  trying  to  fall  on  his 
neck;  but  he  would  n't  let  her. 

"You  must  shtay  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

And  then  he  began  to  sing  at  the  top  of  his  lungs. 
Papa  Knecht  put  his  head  out  of  the  window  and  shouted : 

"  Stop  that  noise  !  " 

Hans  seized  Amalie,  and  ran  into  the  shop  with  her. 

"  Upshtairs  mit  you,  gvick !  Before  you  fadder 
vinds  out ! "  he  exclaimed. 

That  ended  the  elopement.  The  next  morning 
Frederick  got  a  letter  from  the  manager,  agreeing  to 
engage  him  at  seventy-five  dollars  a  night,  to  sing  three 
times  a  night.  He  took  the  letter  at  once  to  Papa 
Knecht,  who  embraced  him  and  said: 

"  I  always  liked  you,  Freddy.  Let  me  see  you 
kiss  her." 

Thr*D    they  all   went   down   to  see  Hans  Sachs,  who 


io  MA  VERICKS. 

was  so  delighted  he  tried  to  drive  pegs  butt  end  first. 
Amalie  fell  upon  his  neck  successfully,  once  more  laugh- 
ing her  sweet  chromatic  laugh,  and  then  went  off  into 
a  corner  with  Frederick.  Papa  Knecht  shook  Sachs's 
hand,  and  said: 

"You  have  been  a  good  friend.  But  tell  me  why 
you  have  taken  so  much  interest  in  this  matter?  " 

Hans  Sachs  laid  down  his  hammer,  blew  his  nose, 
and  then  looked  up  with  his  blue  eyes  swimming  in 
moisture. 

"Veil,"  he  said,  in  a  trembling  whisper;  "I  lofe 
dot  gel  minezelf. " 

W.  J.  Henderson. 


CHESTERFIELD'S    POSTAL- CARDS 
TO   HIS   SON. 


I 


CHESTERFIELD'S   POSTAL-CARDS 
TO   HIS   SON. 


The  first  postal-card  contained  the 
following  message: 

N.  Y.,  3/1/80. 
My  Dear  Boy  : 

You  are  big  enough  to  go  to  meeting  barefoot,  as 
the  Yankee  captain  said  to  me  in  '55  when  I  ran  away 
to  sea,  no  older  than  you  are  now.  I  expect  you  to  hoe 
your  own  row,  as  I  'm  off  by  the  10:  30  Pacific  express. 
I  've  no  time  for  long  letters,  but  I  '11  drop  you  a  postal- 
card  of  advice  now  and  then.  Rule  No.  i  :  Tell  the 
truth.  Rule  No.  2 :  Show  the  sand  that 's  in  you. 
Verbum  sap-head,  as  the  foreman  used  to  say  when  I 
ran  a  country  weekly  in  '68. 

Your  ajjTte  Father, 

J.  Quincy  A.  Chesterfield. 


I4  MAVERICKS. 

The  second  postal-card : 

LEADVILLE,  COL.,  17/1/80. 
Dear  Boy  : 

It  's  as  cold  here  as  the  north  end  of  a  gravestone. 
I  'm  glad  you  're  getting  a  good  grip  on  the  classics. 
Latin  is  useful :  get  the  inside  track  and  give  the  mare 
the  head,  as  I  heard  the  sports  say  in  Cal.,  when  I  was 
lecturing  in  '75  on  "Rum  and  Reform."  Don't  be 
scared  of  Greek  either  —  especially  as  you  have  n't  be- 
gun it  yet.  Rule  3  :  Never  borrow  trouble :  it  's  no 
good  crossing  a  river  before  you  get  there. 

Your  affectionate  Father. 
P.  S.  —  The  mine  is  doing  A  I. 


The  third  postal-card  : 

CHICAGO,  3/2/80. 
Dear  Boy: 

Sorry  to  hear  you  fought  that  Smith  —  a  little  bit 
of  a  cuss,  looking  like  a  bar  of  soap  after  a  hard  day's 
wash.  I  knew  his  father  in  '69,  when  I  was  in  the 
Conn,  legislature.  He  's  a  pretty  poor  shoat,  as  we 
used  to  say  in  Chin,  in  '60,  when  I  was  a  telegraph  clerk. 
Let  the  fellow  alone.  Rule  4 :  Keep  out  of  a  row,  if 
you  can.  Rule  5  :  If  you  can't  keep  out,  go  in  head- 
first and  fight  like  a  fire-zouave.  It  's  the  first  fight  that 
prevents  more;  just  as  we  used  to  nail  the  skin  of  a 
chipmunk  to  the  barn  to  warn  off  the  rest. 

Y'r  Father. 


CHESTERFIELD'S    POSTAL- CARDS.  15 

The  fourth  postal-card : 

OMAHA.  18/2/80. 
Dear  Boy  : 

A  difference  of  opinion  makes  horse-races,  as  I  've 
heard  many  a  time  in  Ky.,  when  I  was  a  walking  gent, 
on  the  southern  circuit,  in  '58.  But  now  you  've  whaled 
the  Smith  boy,  go  easy.  The  mine  gets  better  and 

better.  -.,•         ^  ,7 

Your  Father. 


The  fifth  postal-card: 

ON  PALACE  CAR  "DAKOTA," 
%         ILL.  C.  C.  Ry,  29/2/80. 


The  mine  is  splendid.  Over  two  millions  in  sight ; 
and  your  revered  dad  owns  a  whole  and  undivided  1/5. 
Of  course,  I'll  send  you  the  $10.  Rule  No.  6:  Pay 
C.  O.  D.  always.  I  was  clerk  for  an  auctioneer  in  '57, 
and  I  saw  that  if  a  man  don't  pay  on  the  nail,  he  soon 
gets  sold  out  under  the  hammer.  Tell  the  principal  to 
draw  on  me  for  amt.  due  for  schooling. 

Y'r  Father. 


The  sixth  postal-card  : 

S.  F.,  21/3/80. 
D'r  Boy: 

Yours  rec'd.  I  taught  school  myself  in  '66,  and  I 
found  all  the  boys  knew  more  than  I  did.  Rule  7  : 
Don't  think  too  much  of  yourself.  The  sun  would 
shine,  even  if  the  cock  did  n't  crow. 

J.  Quincy  A.  Chesterfield, 


id  MA  VERICKS. 

The  seventh  postal-card : 
Dear  Abe:  LEADVILLE,  29/3/80. 

Stick  to  the  French  grammar ;  it  is  n't  easy.  When 
I  studied  it  in  the  trenches  before  Richmond  in  '64  the 
irregular  verbs  nearly  threw  me,  but  I  mounted  them 
every  day  as  regularly  as  I  did  guard — though  I  didn't 
hone  for  it,  as  Johnny  Reb  used  to  say.  What  should  I 
have  done  in  Europe  in  '76,  when  I  was  introducing 
Cal.  wines,  if  I  'd  not  known  French  ?  Rule  8 :  Learn 
all  the  foreign  tongues  you  can.  Rule  9 :  Learn  to 

hold  your  own.  .,,       /,.,,,, 

Y'r  off.  Father. 


The  eighth  postal-card  : 

CHICAGO,  30/4^80. 

Dr  Boy  : 

I  've  had  no  time  to  write.  I  Ve  gone  into  big  spec 
with  a  man  I  first  met  in  '65  when  I  took  photos  in 
Boston.  They  call  Boston  a  good  place  to  hail  from : 
lie  and  I  got  out  of  it  quick,  so  as  to  hail  from  it  as  soon 
as  possible.  How  do  you  get  on  with  your  mathematics? 
Your  Father, 

J.  Quincy  A.  Chesterfield. 


The  ninth  postal-card : 
Dear  Abe:  ST'  L°UIS'  IO/5/8o. 

I  am  sorry  the  arithmetic  teacher  is  going  to  leave. 
I  hope  your  next  one  will   be  as   good.      As  I  found  in 


CHESTERFIELD'S    POSTAL-CARDS.  17 

'59  when  I  was  a  surveyor,  it  's  a  handy  thing  to  have 
figures  at  the  ends  of  your  fingers.  The  spec  looks 
bigger  still.  We  've  taken  in  the  man  who  edited  the 
N.  Y.  daily  on  which  I  was  a  reporter  in  '67. 

Y'r  affectionate  Father. 


The  tenth  postal-card  : 

LEADVILLE,  20/5/80. 
D'r  Boy: 

The  mine  is  paying  big  money  and  I  'm  putting  it 
all  in  the  spec  —  for  a  permanent  investment,  as  Uncle 
Dan'l  said  when  I  was  on  the  Street  in  '72,  before  the 
panic  made  rne  sell  my  seat  in  the  board.  I  've  struck 
a  streak  of  luck  sure.  Rule  10:  When  in  luck,  crowd 
things. 

J.  Quincy  A.  Chesterfield. 


The  eleventh  postal-card  : 

LEADVILLE,  13/6/80. 
My  Dear  Abe  : 

Mine  looks  badly ;  spec  looks  worse.  But  I  don't 
give  in  ;  I  've  Yankee  grit.  I  believe  if  a  Yankee  was 
lying  at  the  point  of  death,  he  'd  whittle  it  off  to  pick 
his  teeth  with.  But  I  'm  worried  and  hurried.  Tell  the 
principal  I  '11  remit  the  quarter  now  due  in  a  week  or  two. 

J.  Q.  A.  C. 


TS  MA  V BRICKS. 

The  twelfth  postal-card  : 

N.  Y.,  20/6/80. 
My  dear  Boy  : 

The  spec  has  caved  in  and  all  that  's  left  of  that 
whole  and  undivided  1/5  of  mine  has  gone  to  pay  the 
loss.  Y'r  father  is  as  badly  off  as  he  was  in  '65  when  he 
peddled  a  History  of  the  Rebellion,  or  in  '73  when  he 
went  to  Fla.  to  manage  an  orange  plantation.  I  must 
have  time  to  look  around.  Telegraph  me  at  once  if  the 
principal  has  not  a  teacher  of  mathematics  yet.  I  '11 
apply  for  the  place.  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  with  you 
again,  my  Abe. 

Your  affectionate  Father. 


The  thirteenth  postal-card : 

GRAND  CENTRAL  DEPOT,  N.  Y.,  21/6/80. 

D'r  Boy  : 

Y'r  telegram  rec'd.  Can't  accept  place.  Have 
sent  ck.  for  quarter  due.  Leave  3:45  for  China  to 
introduce  American  inventions.  Will  write  fully  on 
P.  M.  steamer.  Shall  be  back  in  8  or  10  mo's  —  unless 
I  run  clown  to  Australia.  I  think  there  's  a  spec  in 
patent  medicines  down  there. 

Bless  you,  my  boy. 

Vr  Father, 

J.  Oiiincy  A.  Chesterfield. 


CHESTERFIELD'S    POSTAL-CARDS.  ig 


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MISTHER    HANDHRIGAN'S 
LOVE    STORY. 


MISTHER    HANDHRIGAN'S   LOVE   STORY. 

"  A  QUARREL  WITH  yer  swateheart  is  it,  me  b'y.?    Sure 

**•     an'  that  's  the  lightest  thrubble  ye  cud  hev,  but 

it  weighs  the  hivviest.      Weemin  is  sthrange  cattle ;   an' 

the  longer  ye  know  thim,  the  sthranger  ye  '11  find  thim. 

"  Maizie  an'  me  hes  been  marrit  this  fifteen  years 
back;  and  sometimes  I  do  be  thinkin'  it  's  a  new  M;.izie 
I  'm  makin'  the  acquentance  av,  ivery  day.  But,  faith, 
anny  wan  av  the  ould  wans  was  good  enough  fer  me ! 

"  Did  we  quarrel,  is  it,  me  and  Maizie,  whin  we 
were  coortin'  ?  Did  we  do  annythin'  else  till  the  ring 
wint  an  her  finger?  An'  it  was  nick  ah'  go,  but  I  lost 
her  altogither  the  last  time  we  fell  out. 

"  Ye  see,  I  was  wantin'  me  fling  before  I  'd  settle 
down  with  Maizie.  I  hed  a  loose  foot,  an'  a  fella  for  it ; 
an'  there  was  n't  a  dance  or  a  weddin'  but  I  tuk  the  flure 
an'  me  pick  an'  ch'ice  av  gairls. 

"For  a  while  it  wint  well  enough,  an'  Maizie's  huffs 
an'  sulks  was  pepper  to  the  petaties  —  I  was  that  sure 
av  her,  d'  ye  mind?  But  whin  Long  Casey  begin  to 
walk  home  from  chapel  with  her,  an'  she  wud  n't  look  on 
the  same  side  o'  the  road  J  was  an — 


S4  MA  VERICKS. 

"An*  that  was  n't  bad  enough  till  he  began  to 
stravague  about  the  lane  she  lived  in ;  an'  one  night  I 
seen  her  on  the  bank  av  the  river  with  him ;  an'  whin 
she  left  him  she  hurried  past  me  in  the  moonlight,  run- 
nin'  like  a  fairy  whin  I  spoke  to  her — Maizie,  lunnin' 
away  from  ME ! 


"Afther  that,  for  weeks,  I  cud  n't  get  a  word  with 
her.  She  niver  kem  out  alone,  an'  her  mother  an'  the 
childer  was  always  about  her  in  the  house,  an'  she  sint 
back  the  letthers  I  wrut  her,  'ithout  breakin'  the  wafer. 
An'  by  this  time,  gairls  an'  dancin'  was  little  thrubble 
to  me.  I  was  losin'  me  slape  an'  the  taste  o'  me  vittles, 


MISTHER  HANDHRIGAN'S  LOVE   STORY.          25 

an'  me  face  was  the  color  av  a  dab  av  whitewash  an  a 
dhirty  wall. 

"  Casey  was  always  hangin'  about  with  her  father 
an'  brothers ;  an'  his  intintions  was  well  known  to  all,  an' 
well  approved  av.  An  if  it  was  n't  for  the  widda  mother 
he  had,  me  own  mother's  crony,  an'  the  dacintest  soul 
in  the  parish,  I  'd  ha'  bate  him  black  an'  blue,  fer  pre- 
shoomin'  the  way  he  did. 

"Well,  to-mek  a  long  story  short,  one  fine  marnin' 
I  whistled  up  me  courage  an'  skirted  away  over  the  back 
fields  to  Maizie's  house.  The  flowers  was  bloomin',  I 
remimber,  an'  the  big  rosies  was  out;  but  I  thought  it 
sthrange  to  see  no  sowl  about  the  place. 

"  I  wint  up  to  the  dure  an'  lucked  in,  an'  there  was 
Maizie  sittin'  with  her  little  sisther  an  her  knee,  combin' 
an'  curlin'  the  child's  white  hair  about  her  finger. 

"I  was  thet  hoongry  for  the  sight  av  her,  thet  I 
stud  gapin'  like  a  fool. 

"  'The  top  o'  the  marnin'  to  ye,  Miss  Gar-r-r-vey,"' 
sez  I,  whin  I  got  holt  av  me  tongue,  an'  mekin'  me  v'ice 
up  as  bold  as  I  cud. 

"'Fine  day,  Misther  Handhrigan,'  sez  she,  with 
as  much  imperence  as  if  I  was  comin'  to  vaccinet  the 
family.  '  Me  father  an'  me  brothers  is  down  at  the  bog 
below,'  sez  she. 

"  '  An'  good  weather  they  hev,'  sez  I. 

"  '  An'  me  mother,'  sez  she,  '  is  away  at  Dhrimste- 
vellin,'  sez  she,  'to  sell  the  butther.' 

"  But  be  this  time  I  was  in,  an'  luckin'  about  me 
for  a  stool  to  sit  on, 


36  MA  V BRICKS. 

"'I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  Maizie,'  sez  I,  'for  I'm 
comin'  to  see  you.' 

"'Oh,  ye  can  hev  no  business  with  me,  Misther 
Handhrigan,'  sez  she,  curlin'  her  purty  nose;  '  no  b.usi- 
ness,  I  am  sure,  sir,  whativer,  with  me.' 

"  '  Ye 're  wrong  there,'  sez  I;  'it's  business,  an' 
important  business  I  hev;  an'  I  can't  spake  before  the 
child,'  sez  I. 

"  '  Sure  an'  ye  can,'  sez  she;  '  what  does  the  child 
know  about  business  ? ' 

"  'I  can't  spake  before  the  child  on  my  business,' 
sez  I,  mighty  determined;  '  sind  her  into  the  gar-r-rden 
to  pick  a  posy.' 

"  '  I  '11  do  nothin'  av  the  kind,'  sez  she,  tossing  her 
head.  '  Posy,  indeed  !  It  's  well  ye  desarve  one  !  Spake 
or  lave  it  alone,'  sez  she.  'Wait  yet,  Dalia,  love;  Maizie 
'11  soon  be  done.' 

"  '  Mebbe  the  posies  is  a-savin'  fer  Long  Casey,' 
sez  I,  ragin',  but  quiet-like. 

"  '  Mebbe  they  are,'  sez  she;  'at  anny  rate,  he  'd 
not  be  sindin'  the  child  to  pick  thim.' 

"  'No  ;  yersilf  wud  sind  her  fast  enough,  thin,'  sez  I. 

"  '  Is  that  the  business  ye  kem  to  spake  about, 
Misther  Handhrigan?'  sez  she,  flushin'  like  wildfire,  an' 
bitin'  her  lips. 

"'It's  par-r-rt  av  it,'  sez  I;  'an'  more  is,  that 
from  this  time  forrit  I  '11  put  no  thrust  in  weemin.' 

"  '  Poor  things  !   What  '11  become  av  thim  ?  '  sez  she. 

"'Scoff,  if  ye  like,'  sez  I;  'but  there  's.  twinty 
gairls  I  might  'a'  had  for  the  askin' — ; 


MISTHER  HANDHRIGAN'S  LOVE   STORY.          27 

"'The  craytures !  '  sez  she,  burstin'  out  with  a 
laugh.  '  Sure,  an'  ye  're  not  a  Turk  entirely,'  sez  she. 

"  '  But  I  've  1'arned  wan  lesson,'  sez  I  — 

"'Only  wan?'  sez  she.  '  That 's  a  poor  state  of 
ignorance,  is  n't  it,  Dalia,  dear?' 

"  '  But  it  '11  last  me  me  life-time,'  sez  I. 

"  '  It  wud  nade  to,'  says  she.  '  Aisy,  now,  me  Iam- 
bic;  ye  '11  see  the  purty  curls,  how  nice  they  '11  look.' 

"  'I  'in  goin'  to  Ameriky,  the  day  afther  to-morrow,' 
sez  I,  coinin'  the  biggest  lie  I  cud  think  av,  an'  watchin' 
her  face,  expectin'  to  see  the  big  tear  in  a  minute ;  for 
that  was  always  the  way  with  her,  a  laugh  an'  a  cry  in 
the  one  breath  —  but,  faith,  I  did  n't  know  me  gairl. 

"  '  Turn  yer  head  a  bit,  Dalia,'  sez  she,  combin'  an' 
tvvistin'  away  at  the  ringlets.  '  Sure  an'  that  '11  be  a  nice 
jaunt  for  ye,  Misther  Handhrigan,'  says  she. 

"  '  I  'm  goin'  with  a  lonely  wretched  har-r-rt,  if  that 
'11  make  it  a  nice  jaunt,  Maizie,'  sez  I. 

"  '  Why,  but  ye  '11  take  wan  av  thim  gairls  ye  were 
mintionin'  ?  sez  she. 

"  '  I  might  do  worse,'  sez  I. 

"  '  Sure  an'  ye  might,'  sez  she,  tyin'  a  bit  av  ribbon 
round  the  child's  head,  an'  niver  turnin'  to  luck  at  me. 

"  '  Well,  I  '11  be  sayin'  good-by  to  ye,  Miss  Gar-r-r- 
vey,'  sez  I,  takin'  me  hat  up  aff  the  flure. 

"  'Good-by  an'  good  luck  to  ye,'  sez  she,  as  cool  an' 
civil  as  the  bailiff  comin'  to  luck  for  the  May  Day  rint. 

"  'An'  ye  '11  tell  thim  I  'm  crossin'  the  ocean,'  sez 
I,  gittin'  me  stick  out  o'  the  earner;  an',  faith,  I  felt  as 
if  the  lie  I  was  tellin'  was  hardenin'  into  a  truth,  for  I 


MAVERICKS. 


knew  Oirlan'  wud  niver  hould  me,  once  I  said  good-by 
to  Maizie. 

"  <  I   will,   indade,'  sez   she,  pelite  an'   plisint,  but 
niver  afferin'  to  shake  hands  with  me. 
"  'Well,  good-by,'  sez  I,  again. 
"  'Good-by,  sir,'  sez  she,  luckin'  at  me,  this  time, 
with  her  big  shinin'  blue  eyes,  an'  sorra  the 
hint  av  a  tear  to  be  seen. 

"  Ah,  me  b'y,  whin  I  see  Maizie's  eyes 
luckin'  at  me  like  that,  I  thought 
I  was  done  for,  sure  enough  !  Me 
own  tears  was  beginnin'  to  choke 
me,  so  I  turned  about,  an'  walked 
away,  across  the  flure;  but  jest  as 
I  raiched  the  dure,  ready  to  step 
out  — 

"  'Dah'a,'  sez  she,    '  roon  into 
the   gar-r-rden,    ati1  pick   a  posy 
for  Misther  Handhrigan.' 


"But,  faith,  whin  the  child  kem  back,  it  was  little  I 
cared  for  posies." 

Madeline  S.  Bridges, 


OLD    JONESY. 


OLD     JONESY. 


AN  AFFECTING  TALF.  or  YOUTHFUL 
PROMISE  THAT  WAS  NOT  FULFILLED. 

|Y  ACQUAINTANCE  with  Old  Jonesy 
began  with  my  school  life.  As  I 
was  the  first,  and  for  several  years 
the  only  child  of  my  parents,  I  was 
believed  in  my  early  youth  to  be 
altogether  too  valuable  and  fragile 
to  be  endangered  by  contact  with 

the  rougher  and  more  common  material  at  a  public 
school.  Therefore,  until  I  was  about  ten  years  old, 
my  education  was  carefully  administered  under  strictly 
home  rule. 

By  the  time  that  I  was  ten  years  old  the  advent  of 
other  children  had  injured  my  uniqueness,  and  my 
parents'  faith  in  my  value  and  fragility.  I  was  accord- 
ingly taken  to  a  public  school,  with  an  education  that 
differed  exceedingly  from  that  of  the  average  small  boy 
of  my  years,  being  in  some  respects  superior  and  in 
some  inferior. 


As  its  inferiority  was  in  lines  most  valued  by  youth 
of  my  age,  to  wit,  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  well- 
known  games  and  received  traditions,  and  its  superiority 
was  mainly  in  arithmetic,  geography  and  English 
literature,  which  at  that  time  did  n't  seem  to  count 
for  much,  I  was  made  to  feel  that  I  was  somewhat 
behind  my  fellows. 

My  father  enlivened  the  walk  to  the  school-house 
by  a  number  of  very  encouraging  statements  which  had 
rather  a  forced  sound  to  me.  He  seemed  to  me  to  have 
quite  the  air  of  a  doctor  giving  to  his  patient  the  most 
favorable  prognosis  possible  of  a  very  grave  disease. 
I  walked  up  to  the  school-house  with  very  much  the 
same  sinking  at  heart  that  1  had  experienced  on  several 
visits  to  the  dentist ;  and,  so  strong  was  the  power  of 
association,  that  I  seemed  to  detect  a  faint  odor  of  ether 
in  the  air. 

The  school-mistress  was  a  rather  masculine-looking 
person,  with  very  black  eyes  and  a  very  firm  mouth. 


OLD  JONESY.  33 

She  smiled  on  me  in  a  way  that  was  meant  to  be  reas- 
suring; but  I  interpreted  her  smile  as  signifying  her 
delight  on  welcoming  a  new  victim.  As  soon  as  my 
father  left  me,  the  school-mistress  took  me  by  the  hand 
and  led  me  to  my  desk.  Then  it  was  that  I  met  Old 
Jonesy,  though  I  did  not  at  that  time  know  him  by  his 
distinguishing  appellation. 

"  This  is  Master  William  Jones,"  was  what  she  said 
as  she  seated  me  by  the  side  of  a  small  boy  of  about  my 
own  age,  with  a  light  and  freckled  complexion,  a  mop  of 
sandy  hair,  two  extremely  large  front  teeth,  and  a  very 
sober  face. 

I  was  at  that  time  too  bewildered  to  be  struck  by 
the  look  of  superior  wisdom  which  I  afterward  recognized 
as  the  characteristic  expression  of  Master  William  Jones. 
He  eyed  me  all  over  in  a  very  solemn  way. 

From  my  Oxford  ties  to  my  butterfly  neck-tie,  Master 
Jones  subjected  me  to  a  careful  and  rigid  scrutiny.  He 
offered  no  opinion  as  the  result  of  his  examination ;  but 
after  a  few  minutes  he  bent  toward  me  and  gravely  whis- 
pered: "Got  a  knife?" 

I  nodded,  and  he  relapsed  into  silence  and  the  con- 
templation of  a  soiled  arithmetic  which  he  held  in  his 
hand. 

In  considering  the  character  of  Old  Jonesy,  I  am 
somewhat  biased  now  by  impressions  of  him  that  belong 
to  my  early  youth.  If  in  my  reminiscences  I  present  him 
as  something  of  a  fraud,  I  want  it  to  be  understood  that 
he  produced  no  such  impression  at  that  time,  but  was 
revered  and  looked  up  to  with  an  unquestioning  faith. 


It  was  at  recess,  that  brief  oasis  in  the  desert  of 
school  life  which  cheers  and  refreshes  the  weary  seeker 
after  knowledge,  that  I  first  learned  in  what  estimation 
Old  Jonesy  was  held  by  his  fellow-students,  and  what  my 
privilege  was  in  being  granted  a  seat  by  his  side  —  a 
distinction  which  I  was  supposed  to  owe  to  the  fact  that 
my  father  was  a  committee-man.  On  the  strength  of  a 
two-bladed  knife  which  I  produced,  I  was  immediately 
made  a  member  of  Old  Jonesy's  celebrated  band  of  Indian 
scouts. 

In  looking  back  upon  Old  Jonesy  I  can  see  that  he 
must  have  been  something  of  a  reader,  and  that  his  in- 
ventions probably  took  color  from  the  last  story  which 
he  had  read.  At  this  period  of  my  acquaintance  with 
him  he  must,  I  think,  have  been  reading  Cooper's 
"  Leather  -  Stocking  Tales."  He  was  regarded  by  the 
entire  school  as  an  expert  hunter  and  guide,  and  he  was 
the  head  and  chief  of  a  band  of  Indian  scouts.  Before 


OLD  JONESY.  35 

assigning  me  a  position  in  this  band  of  savages,  Old 
Jonesy  examined  my  knife  with  great  care.  He  said  that 
it  would  do,  but  suggested  several  improvements  which 
would  make  it  more  valuable  as  a  scalping-knife.  I  was 
disappointed  to  find  that  none  of  them  seemed  quite 
practicable.  To  determine  the  acuteness  of  my  sense  of 
smell,  for  the  band  of  scouts  tracked  their  prey  largely 
by  scent,  Old  Jonesy  made  me  shut  my  eyes,  and  then 
held  in  succession  one  or  two  parcels  under  my  nose. 

I  recognized  one  of  them  as  sassafras,  and,  upon 
saying  so,  was  informed  that  the  correct  Indian  pronun- 
ciation was  "saxafrax."  The  others  I  failed  on;  but, 
although  the  examination  was  not  a  complete  success,  I 
was  enrolled  into  the  band  as  the  "Black  Eagle,"  by 
which  name  I  was  to  be  known  on  the  war-path. 

On  Saturday  afternoons  we  used  to  go  to  a  spot  in 
the  woods  which  was  known  as  "The  Cave."  There 
certainly  used  to  be  a  cave  there,  though  I  could  find 
nothing  but  an  overhanging  rock  when  I  strolled  up 
there  the  other  day ;  and  as  for  the  subterranean  passage, 
that  only  the  boldest  of  the  Indians  dared  to  explore, 
I  could  reach  my  cane  through  it  from  end  to  the  other. 
Everything  in  the  woods  seems  to  have  shrunk  since 
those  days.  It  was  a  wild  and  presumably  dangerous 
locality  then,  and  it  was  only  implicit  confidence  in  the 
skill  and  bravery  of  our  leader  that  gave  us  courage  to 
explore  the  mysterious  depths  of  the  forest.  Before 
crossing  the  pasture  lot  which  led  to  the  woods,  Old 
Jonesy  would  lie  down  and  put  his  ear  to  the  ground. 
If  there  had  been  a  hostile  band  or  a  treacherous  pale- 


36  MAVERICKS. 

face  within  a  radius  of  five  miles,  Old  Jonesy's  quick  ear 
would  have  instantly  detected  it.  We  waited  in  solemn 
silence  until  it  was  pronounced  safe  to  go  on.  Then, 
when  the  edge  of  the  woods  was  reached,  the  twigs  and 
bushes  had  to  be  very  carefully  examined. 

Occasionally  Old  Jonesy  would  show  us  a  broken 
twig,  which  indicated  that  about  four  hours  before  a  deer 
had  passed  that  way ;  or  a  torn  leaf  by  which  he  could 
read  that,  in  the  early  morning  a  pale-face,  carrying  a 
gun  and  wearing  high  boots  and  a  broad  felt  hat,  had 
pushed  his  way  through  the  thicket.  It  was  wonderful 
how  much  that  boy  could  read  from  a  broken  twig.  We 
spent  the  afternoon  in  hunting  the  enemy.  When  Old 
Jonesy's  remarkable  wood-lore  and  his  powers  of  divina- 
tion are  considered,  it  is  strange  that  the  enemy  should 
have  succeeded  in  eluding  us;  but  he  did,  and  during 
the  few  weeks  that  the  band  of  Indian  scouts  existed,  we 
never  found  him,  though  we  sought  him  faithfully. 

After  a  few  weeks  of  scouting,  Old  Jonesy  must  have 
finished  Cooper  and  taken  Charles  Lever  in  hand ;  for 
we  found,  without  any  warning,  that  we  were  no  longer 
a  band  of  Indians,  but  officers  in  an  Irish  regiment. 

We  should  have  had  horses  to  have  enabled  us  to 
fill  the  parts  that  were  now  assigned  to  us ;  instead  of 
which  we  were  obliged  to  content  ourselves  with  tales 
which  Old  Jonesy  told  us  of  his  own  feats  of  horseman- 
ship. They  were  certainly  very  impressive.  As  a  vast 
amount  of  duelling  was  expected  of  us  in  this  new  role, 
Old  Jonesy  taught  us  to  fence.  Our  swords  were  made 
of  lath,  the  handles  whittled  down  and  a  cross  -  piece 


OLD  JONESY.  tf 

nailed  on  for  a  guard.  Old  Jonesy  managed  the  duels. 
He  told  us  when  we  had  been  insulted ;  we  could  never 
have  found  it  out  for  ourselves.  When  the  notice  was 
served  that  an  insult  had  been  offered,  the  principals 
stalked  off  in  a  dignified  silence  while  the  seconds  ar- 
ranged the  meeting. 

The  preliminaries  having  been  settled  to  everybody's 
satisfaction,  at  the  solemn  moment  the  principals  were 
escorted  by  their  seconds  to  the  appointed  place.  This 
was  usually  behind  the  wood-shed  in  my  father's  yard. 
On  the  ground,  the  swords  were  carefully  inspected  by  the 
seconds  and  measured  to  see  that  neither  of  the  combat- 
ants had  any  unfair  advantage  in  the  length.  Jackets 
were  thrown  off,  and  a  leather  belt  drawn  tightly  around 
the  waist  of  each  of  the  pale,  determined  warriors.  Then 
Old  Jonesy  said  "en  gardy,"  and  the  conflict  began. 

On  the  strength  of  a  small  mahogany  box  which  I 
found  somewhere  about  the  house,  and  which  contained 
originally  some  silver  spoons,  I  was  appointed  the  sur- 
geon of  the  regiment,  and  I  attended  all  of  these 
conflicts  with  the  small  box  under  my  arm.  My  services 
were  only  required  once.  Major  Palmer,  in  a  fierce 
conflict,  had  a  piece  of  skin  knocked  off  the  back  of  his 
hand.  He  was  supported  in  the  arms  of  Old  Jonesy 
until  I  had  treated  the  wound  with  court-plaster,  ban- 
daged his  hand,  and  put  his  arm  in  a  sling. 

Then  Old  Jonesy  began  Marryat,  and  the  wood- 
shed was  metamorphosed  into  a  full-rigged  ship,  with 
Old  Jonesy  as  rear-admiral ;  and  nothing  but  his  coolness 
and  perfect  seamanship  could  have  brought  us  safely 


OLD  JONESY.  $) 

through  some  of  the  tempests  we  braved.  It  was  a 
thrilling  sight  to  see  him,  standing  on  the  two  planks 
across  a  wheel-barrow,  which  constituted  our  quarter- 
deck, shouting  orders  to  his  crew  through  a  section  of 
stove-pipe ;  and  with  what  desperate  daring  did  he  lay 
us  along-side  of  a  French  three-decker,  greatly  our 
superior  in  armament  and  tonnage;  and,  having  thrown 
grappling-irons  over  her  side,  lead  his  crew,  with  the 
cry:  "  Boarders,  follow  me  !  "  to  her  decks  and  victory. 
The  nautical  terms  with  which  he  sprinked  his  conver- 
sation were  simply  astonishing.  He  knew  knots  and 
splices  without  number.  One  particularly  complicated 
knot,  which  he  called  the  "  Pirates'  Noose,"  was  a  secret 
of  his  own. 

At  last  Old  Jonesy  moved  away,  and  his  band  of 
followers  gradually  broke  up.  We  did  n't  know  where 
he  went  to.  Before  his  departure  he  hinted  mysteriously 
that  he  was  about  to  engage  in  some  perilous  enterprise 
which  was  likely  to  try  even  his  iron  nerve.  He  was 
seen  by  some  of  us,  riding  down  to  the  railway  station 
with  his  father  and  mother,  and  that  was  the  last  we 
knew  of  him.  A  small  boy  who  went  to  Troy  on  a  visit 
to  some  of  his  relatives,  spread  a  report  that  he  had 
seen  Old  Jonesy  there.  He  also  saw  a  torch-light  pro- 
cession in  Troy,  and  I  think  that  he  must  have  got  a 
little  mixed  up  about  it,  for  we  gathered  from  the  cross- 
examinations  to  which  we  subjected  him,  the  impression 
that  it  had  been  a  celebration  in  honor  of  Old  Jonesy, 
who  rode  on  a  black  horse  at  the  head  of  the  procession. 

It   was  a  long  time  before  the  vivid  impression  of 


40  MA  VERICKS. 

Old  Jonesy's  skill  and  daring  faded  from  my  mind. 
I  believed  in  him  thoroughly,  as,  indeed,  we  all  did,  and 
I  used  to  be  in  constant  expectation  that  he  would  turn 
up  as  the  hero  of  some  courageous  exploit.  It  was 
impossible  that  he  should  remain  unknown  and  unhon- 
ored.  I  should  never  have  been  surprised  to  have  read 
that  the  young  man  who,  at  the  peril  of  his  own  life, 
saved  two  women  and  four  small  children  from  the 
burning  building  was  named  William  Jones,  or  that 
William  Jones  was  named  as  a  prominent  candidate  for 
the  Presidential  chair. 

Last  Summer  I  slung  my  knapsack  over  my  shoul- 
der, and  started  for  a  walk  through  the  upper  part  of 
the  county,  off  from  the  line  of  travel  and  the  railroad, 
through  a  broad  village  street  where  Lafayette  and  his 
army  once  encamped,  and  by  the  white  house  where 
Washington  used  to  consult  with  Brother  Jonathan,  to 
put  up  for  a  night  at  a  tavern  which  had  been  on  the 
post-road,  and  where  the  fast  stage  had  stopped  while  its 
passengers  supped  in  the  long  dining-room  that  now 
echoed  to  the  tread  of  the  solitary  maid  who  brought 
me  a  beefsteak  that,  in  spite  of  my  remonstrances,  had 
been  fried. 

One  glorious  morning  I  had  climbed  a  long  hill, 
and  stopped  for  a  minute  on  the  top  to  rest  and  look 
about  me.  Before  me  was  a  cross-road,  and  on  the 
corner  a  small  country  store ;  down  the  road  were  a  few 
straggling  houses,  and  on  one  side  a  severely  plain,  low, 
white  building  which  I  recognized  as  the  school-house. 
It  had  been  long  enough  since  I  breakfasted  to  make  the 


OLD  JONESY.  41 

prospect   of  crackers  and  cheese  rather  alluring,  and  I 
strolled  leisurely  toward  the  store. 

The  proprietor,  a  stout  good-natured  looking  man 
with  sandy  hair,  stood  in  his  shirt-sleeves  at  the  door. 
There  was  something  strangely  familiar  about  his  face. 
I  bade  him  good  morning,  and  ate  my  crackers  and 
cheese,  while  he  looked  me  over  curiously.  Walking 
for  pleasure  is  a  problem  that  the  rustic  mind  struggles 
with  in  vain.  He  questioned  me  a  little  about  my  walk, 
and  when  I  had  finished  my  lunch  I  bade  him  good 


morning,  and  went  on  down  the  road,  still  puzzled  by 
the  familiarity  of  his  face. 

As  I  passed  the  school-house,  the  scholars  were 
coming  out  for  recess,  and  a  small  tow-headed  boy  with 
a  freckled  face  stepped  into  the  road  before  me,  followed 


4a  MAVERICKS. 

by  two  or  three  others.  There  was  absolutely  no  mis- 
taking that  boy,  and  I  looked  down  involuntarily  to  see 
if  I  were  wearing  a  jacket  again,  and  had  drifted  back 
in  life  thirty  years.  The  tow-headed  boy  and  his  follow- 
ers carried  in  their  hands  sharp-pointed  sticks,  and  I 
heard  him  say:  "  You  must  creep  up  soft  and  spear  'em 
when  you  see  their  backs." 

I  stopped  them,  and  asked  what  they  were  going 
to  do. 

"  Spear  salmon  at  the  Falls,"  said  the  tow-headed 
boy. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "   I  asked. 

"  William  Jones,"  he  answered. 

"And  is  that  your  father's  store?"  I  asked,  point- 
ing back  down  the  road. 

He  turned  and  looked  where  I  could  still  see  the 
proprietor  standing  in  the  door,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  nodded  his  head. 

Then  I  knew  that  I  had  met  Old  Jonesy. 

Walter  Learned. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  SPOTTED  MAN. 


THE  ROMANCE   OF  A    SPOTTED   MAN. 


AM  THE  ORIGINAL    SPOTTED    MAN,  and 
have  been  known  to  fame  as  "The 
Leopard,"  for  a  score  of  years.    Aside 
from  The   Leopard,  my  stage  name 
is  Peleg  Porter,  and  my  real  name  is 
—  but  never  mind.      I  am  to  give  a 
short    sketch    of    Peleg    Porter's    love 
affair,  and  his  real  name  is  immaterial. 
I  do  solemnly  assure  the  skeptical,  that 
spotted  men  are  as  susceptible  of  the  tender 
passion  as  their  more  fortunate  brethren, 
and     their     affaires     d' amour   are    always 
romantic  from  the  fact  that  leopard-men  and 
other  freaks  must  live,  love  and  die  in  channels  that  run 
wide  of  the  commonplace. 

It  happened  that,  during  the  Summer  of  '87,  I 
entered  into  a  two  weeks'  engagement  to  exhibit  my 
spots  in  a  Chicago  museum,  and  I  repaired  thither  to 
fulfill  my  contract.  By  one  of  those  coincidences  which 
hapless  fortune  is  ever  forcing  upon  us  poor  mortals,  it 
also  happened  that  Mademoiselle  Irene  Leroy,  a  snake- 


THE    ROMANCE    OF   A    SPOTTED    MAN.  45 

charmer  of  national  repute,  began  an  engagement  at 
the  same  museum  and  at  the  same  time  with  myself. 

Irene  was  beautiful !  Faultless  of  feature,  she 
united  with  her  beauty  a  willowy  movement  of  her 
plump  limbs  that  came  insensibly  from  a  constant  hand- 
ling of  her  serpents.  The  platform  whereon  she  ex- 
hibited her  reptiles  was  next  to  mine ;  and  many  and 
many  a  time  have  I  wished  myself  an  Indian  cobra,  that 
I  might  embrace  her  with  my  shining  coils,  and  receive 
the  little  love-pats  which  her  tiny  hands  bestowed  upon 
her  pets ;  but,  alas !  I  was  only  a  poor  man,  whose 
single  fortune  was  his  spots,  and  who  could  only  look 
upon  Irene  and  vainly  sigh. 

How  the  fat  man  used  to  laugh  at  me !  and  the 
Albino  people,  too,  what  fun  they  had  at  my  expense  ! 
But  Love  is  a  stranger  to  all  scorn  but  his  lady's,  and  I 
continued  to  glance  and  sigh  for  the  favor  of  fair  Irene. 

Pursuing  these  tactics,  I  finally  managed  to  gain 
the  attention  of  my  adored  one.  At  first,  she  would 
only  vouchsafe  me  a  glance ;  then  I  saw  with  delight 
that  she  bestowed  a  kindly  attention  upon  the  brief 
remarks  anent  myself,  which  I  essayed  when  the  show- 
man called  the  attention  of  his  audience  to  me.  When 
I  bowed,  thereafter,  Irene  was  the  cynosure  of  the 
courtesy.  From  these  little  exchanges  of  good  will  we 
came,  at  last,  to  smiles,  and  she  would  nod  in  a  friendly 
way  when  she  ascended  her  platform  in  the  morning  for 
the  day's  exhibition.  Finally,  one  day  of  days,  she 
came  over  to  my  stage  and  brought  a  little  snake  to 
show  me.  Emboldened  by  her  glances,  I  patted  the 


young  reptile,  and  courted  his  friendship  because  I 
imagined  to  gain  Irene's  favor. 

From  that  time  until  near  the  close  of  my  engage- 
ment we  were  very  intimate,  and  my  heart  came  to  be 
assailed  with  the  deepest  love.  Did  she  reciprocate  my 
affection?  I  fondly  thought  so;  for,  latterly,  when  I 
turned  in  her  direction,  her  eyes  would  droop  toward  the 
blue  box  that  held  her  serpents,  and  a  blush  would 
mantle  her  cheek.  "She  loves  me!"  I  rapturously 
thought. 

The  fortnight  of  my  engagement  expired  on  Satur- 
day night,  and  Friday,  burning  with  a  passion  I  could 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  A    SPOTTED   MAN.  47 

not  trust  to  speech,  I  indited  a  tender  epistle,  filled  with 
endearing  expressions,  and  breathing  the  sentiments  of 
my  love.  I  wrote  how  madly  I  loved  her,  how  my  whole 
heart  was  wrapped  in  her  beautiful  being,  and  asked,  in 
conclusion,  that  she  become  my  bride,  give  up  the 
museum  business,  and  retire  with  me  to  the  little  Michi- 
gan farm,  which  twenty  years  of  exhibiting  to  crowded 
houses  and  a  shrewd  investment  of  the  proceeds  had 
netted  me.  With  trembling  hands  I  folded  the  missive, 
and  sent  it  to  her  by  a  Zulu  chief,  who  was  my  friend. 

I  will  not  watch  her  when  she  reads  it,  thought  I, 
for  it  might  embarrass  her.  I  will  look  away  until  she 
pens  me  an  answer. 

So  I  watched  the  pianist  as  he  thumped  his  patient 
instrument,  and  fell  into  a  sweet  revery,  which  lasted 
until  my  sable  friend  re-appeared  and  thrust  my  answer 
into  my  hand.  It  was  my  letter.  She  had  replied  by 
writing  upon  the  back.  I  read  the  scrawl,  and  was 
undone.  Oh,  heavens  !  Irene  was  a  coquette.  Here  is 
her  reply : 

peleg  Porlir 

sur 
when  i  git  Marrid  i  want  A  feller  all  of  One  Color 


Oh,  the  pity  of  it !  The  spots  that  had  made  my 
fortune  had  finally  wrecked  my  life.  The  rest  of  that 
Friday  was  drear,  indeed,  and  it  passed  like  a  dream  of 
purgatory.  I  could  not  realize  that  Irene  had  so  sud- 


MA  VE RICKS. 


denly  and  cruelly  gone  out  of  my  life.  I  read  and  re- 
read her  note ;  and,  finally,  when  night  came  and  I  left 
the  museum  for  my  lodgings,  I  sank  into  a  slumber  re- 
plete with  troubled  dreams. 

I  could  not  give  up  Irene.  I  arose  on  Saturday 
morning,  resolved  to  see  her,  and  to  request,  from  her 
own  lips,  another  answer  ere  we  parted  forever. 

This  Saturday  was  to  be  a  great  day  at 
the  museum.  My  Zulu  friend  was 
to  perform  a  war-dance  in  his 
bare  feet  upon  broken  glass; 
I  was  billed  for  a  humorous 
lecture,  and  Irene  was  to 
perform  with  an  immense 
boa  -  constrictor  "  that  had 
never  before  been  out  of  his 
cage,"  (so  the  bills  said,  but 
I  found  this  to  be  a  fabrica- 
tion, pure  and  simple.)  I 
trembled  for  Irene,  but  what 
was  she  to  me  now  ?  Nothing 
more  than  a  mere  acquaint- 
ance. Our  two  weeks  of  com- 
panionship were  nearly  fin- 
ished. When  Saturday  night 

had  passed,  Irene  would  take  her  serpents  to  St.  Paul ; 
and  I,  broken-hearted,  would  repair  to  my  rural  home 
and  pass  my  life  in  an  endeavor  to  erase  that  cruel 
coquette  from  mind  and  heart. 

But  was  it  all  over  ?     I  was  fain  to  hope  differently. 


THE    ROMANCE    OF  A.  SPOTTED   MAN.  49 

That  Saturday  morning  when  I  arose  and  started  for  the 
museum,  I  felt  as  many  another  rejected  lover,  and  I 
burned  to  perform  some  heroic  act  which  would  prove 
to  Irene  that,  although  I  was  a  leopard-man,  I  could 
yet  do  and  dare  like  a  regular  hero  more  fortunate  epi- 
dermically.  Af  any  rate,  I  could  seek  her  and  tell  my 
love  with  my  own  lips ;  she  would  not,  she  could  not, 
deny  me.  Thinking  thus,  I  ascended  the  museum  stairs 
with  more  than  my  wonted  dignity. 

Shortly  afterward,  Irene  came  and  walked  directly 
past  me  to  her  stage,  without  even  one  glance  in  my 
direction.  My  heart  sank  within  me,  for,  by  this  action, 
I  was  clearly  given  to  understand  that  her  ruthless  note 
was  the  final  blow  to  our  intimacy.  Henceforward  we 
were  to  be  strangers. 

I  was  resolved  that  my  despair  should  not  be  mani- 
fested, for  I  would  have  died  rather  than  Irene  should 
know  I  felt  her  disfavor  so  keenly.  In  the  face  of  her 
stern  demeanor,  all  thoughts  of  asking  her  to  reconsider 
the  refusal  of  my  love  vanished  like  dew  in  a  morning 
sun.  She  would  have  none  of  me.  Very  good,  thought 
I ;  I  will  show  you,  Ma'm'selle,  that  I  can  live  without 
you ! 

I  have  never  delivered  so  humorous  a  lecture  as  on 
that  Saturday  night.  The  audience  screamed  with  mirth, 
the  showman  snickered,  and  every  freak  in  the  hall  (save 
Irene)  laughed  immoderately.  I  answered  numerous  en- 
cores, and  was  finally  permitted  to  make  my  bow  and  sit 
down.  Irene  was  next  on  the  programme,  and  I  won- 
dered if  she  would  acquit  herself  as  well  as  I  had  done. 


jo  MA  VERICKS. 

Two  men  pushed  through  the  crowd  of  spectators,  lug- 
ging a  large  box,  which  they  deposited  upon  the  plat- 
form as  carefully  as  though  it  had  been  filled  with  dyna- 
mite. Irene  stood  up,  grand,  beautiful,  intrepid. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  the  lecturer,  "you 
see  before  you,  Mademoiselle  Irene  Leroy,  the  peerless 
Circassian  queen  and  snake-charmer  par-excellence  of 
the  old  world.  Her  fame  is  co-extensive  with  all  Europe. 
She  has  appeared  before  kings  and  princes  of  the  blood 
royal  in  her  fearless  acts,  and  has  been  applauded  and 
decorated  by  some  of  the  greatest  rulers  of  the  present 
age.  By  offering  a  fabulous  sum,  Messrs.  Mudge  &  Fudge, 
the  foremost  spirits  in  the  amusement  world,  secured 
Ma'm'selle  Irene  for  a  brief  engagement,  during  which  it 
was  stipulated  that  she  should  give  one,  and  only  one 
performance  with  her  mammoth  boa-constrictor,  Salva- 
dore.  This  reptile  measures  twenty-four  feet  in  length, 
and  it  seems,  indeed,  as  though  it  could  be  but  certain 
death  to  venture  in  his  power;  yet  so  great  is  the  lady's 
sway  over  the  reptilian  kingdom,  that  she  will  handle 
Salvadore  with  the  greatest  ease  !  Behold  !  the  fearless 
Irene  approaches  and  loosens  the  lid  —  she  is  at  the 
mercy  of  the  serpent !  " 

Irene,  perfectly  calm  and  collected,  coaxed  the 
snake  from  his  box,  and  he  glided  out  upon  the  floor. 
Then  he  wound  himself  in  sinuous  coils  about  her  body, 
and  she,  lofty  and  erect,  looked  like  a  placid  Hindoo 
god  in  the  meshes  of  Ananta. 

But,  suddenly,  she  uttered  a  scream,  and  I  saw  the 
snake's  coils  tighten  about  her  slender  form.  She  had 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  A    SPOTTED   MAN.  51 

lost  control  of  Salvadore,  and  he  was  crushing  her  to 
death  !  The  audience  pressed  fearfully  back,  and  the 
showman  threw  up  his  hands  wildly.  I  realized  that  my 
opportunity  had  arrived.  Now  was  my  time  to  convince 
Irene  of  my  heroism  and  win  her  hand. 

"Have  courage,  Irene,"  I  cried;  "I  will  save 
you  !  " 

Seizing  a  long  sword  belonging  to  the  Zulu  chief, 
with  one  mad  jump  I  sprang  upon  her  platform,  and, 
quicker  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  I  had  decapitated  Salva- 
dore, and  laid  him  dead  at  my  loved  one's  feet.  Irene 
fainted  and  fell  upon  the  stage.  Before  I  could  catch 
her  in  my  arms,  the  showman  grasped  my  shoulder. 

"What  did  you  do  that  for?"  he  cried,  choking 
with  anger.  "  That  was  a  part  of  the  act." 

"  I  saved  my  darling's  life,"  I  said,  drawing  myself 
from  his  grasp,  and  stooping  over  the  unconscious  Irene. 

"  Saved  her  life,  indeed  !  "  he  cried.  "  The  snake 
was  trained  —  it  was  that  act  that  made  her  reputation 
—  that  was  her  chef  d'oeuvre.  Get  off  this  stage,  sir; 
go  to  your  own  platform  !  " 

I  rose  to  my  feet,  and  the  truth  began  to  dawn 
upon  me.  The  serpent  had  been  trained  to  tighten  his 
coils,  Irene  screamed,  and  the  showman  became  terrified, 
just  'to  give  the  audience  a  shock,  and  I,  blockhead  that 
I  was  !  had  been  the  victim  of  a  mere  piece  of  acting. 
How  I  got  out  of  that  hall  and  to  my  hotel,  I  do  not 
know ;  but,  ah  !  the  long,  long  hours  that  I  battled  with 
my  mortification  and  despair.  What  would  Irene  think 
of  me  now  ?  What  could  she  think  ?  I  could  conceive 

5 


MA  VERICKS. 


but  one  answer  to  this  question  —  my  case  had  become 
utterly  hopeless,  if  it  had  not  been  so  before.  I  deter- 
mined to  leave  Chicago  at  once,  and  to  take  the  first 
train  for  Michigan. 

As  I  was  preparing  for  my  journey,  the  call-boy 
knocked  at  my  door,  and  presented  me  with  a  letter. 
From  Mudge  &  Fudge,  I  thought,  with  my  salary  — 
but,  no !  O  ye  Angelic  Fates !  that  letter  was  from 
Irene,  and  I  read  and  kissed  the  misspelled  text  with 
frantic  joy.  What  wonder  that  I  should 
feel  transported ! 

deer  peleg 

i  dont  care  about  the  snaik  i 
had  had  so  menriy  lovers  that  was 
ftkel  that  i  thot  you  was  fikel  to 
my  last  lover  was  alron  jawed 
man  and  he  Deceeved  me  so 
i  thot  id  see  If  you  loved  me 
Real  and  tru  thats  why  i 
wrot  you    as    i  did   to    see 
if  youd  deceeved  Me   and 
woidd    love    me  enny  more 
i  dont  care  about  the  snaik 
i  love  you  and  if  you  Want 
me  ill  be  yourn  so  no  More 
from 

ireen 


Kind  reader,  need   I   say  anything  more?    Need   I 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  A    SPOTTED   MAN.  53 

dwell  upon  the  happiness  of  that  reconciliation?  I  feel 
that  further  words  are  unnecessary.  I  hope  you  will 
find  as  much  joy  in  wedded  life  as  has  the  Spotted  Man. 

William  Wallace  Cook. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  A   BUSY   LIFE. 


"Here  I  found  that  my  labors  were 
none  the  less  exacting" 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   A    BUSY    LIFE. 


Chapter  I. 

FACT   WHICH    I   have  always 
regarded  as   in    a  measure 
foretokening   my   busy   life 
is   that    I    was   born  a  few 
weeks  after  the  Fourth  of 
July,    so    that    there    have 
been  comparatively  few  holi- 
days for  me.     I  was  obliged  to 
wait  six  months  for  my  first  Christ- 
mas,  nearly  a  year  for  my  first  cele- 
bration of  the  day  of  Independence,  and 
a  full  year  for  my  first  birthday. 

In  general,  I  am  not  a  believer  in  portents;  yet, 
when  the  holidays  come  around,  and  I  am  sitting  at  the 
Christmas  banquet,  I  can  not  escape  the  feeling  that  I 
am  eating  last  year's  turkey,  nor  on  the  glorious  Fourth 
can  I  break  away  from  the  conviction  that  I  am  listening 
to  last  year's  orations. 

But  let  us  drop  these  vain  speculations,  and  com- 
mence a  tale  of  my  busy  life. 


5&  MA  VE RICKS. 

I  have  now  completed  my  sixth  year. 

During  my  first  twelve-month,  finding  no  other 
employment  at  hand  by  which  to  gain  my  living,  I  de- 
termined to  lay  aside  all  considerations  of  dignity,  and 
to  engage  in  a  course  of  unremitting  grief.  In  this  busi- 
ness I  prospered  beyond  my  hopes,  and,  showing  how 
perseverance  may  find  its  reward  even  in  the  simplest 
vocation,  I  was  at  all  times  able  to  keep  myself  well 
and  happy. 

It  may  be  well  here  to  point  out  what  I  consider  an 
error  in  the  course  pursued  by  other  children.  They  are 
content  to  assuage  their  grief  after  crying  until  they 
have  obtained  everything  they  can  think  of.  It  was  my 
own  practice,  however  —  and  I  now  look  back  at  this  as 
presaging  the  tireless  industry  I  have  since  shown  —  to 
cry  not  only  until  I  had  obtained  everything  I  could 
think  of,  but  to  continue  crying,  letting  other  people 
think  of  things.  They  often  thought  of  things  that 
pleased  me  beyond  measure. 

Nor  was  there  more  than  one  occasion  of  impor- 
tance when  lamentation  failed  me.  This  was  in  the  early 
part  of  my  early  Summer  when,  after  the  first  hot  days, 
there  came  about  a  terrifying  commotion.  The  room  in 
which  I  played  was  invaded  by  a  frightful  gloom ;  fitful 
light  flashed  at  the  windows;  the  wind  rose;  the  glass 
was  beaten  against  by  rain  and  hail,  and  there  were 
bursts  of  deafening  noise  such  as  I  had  never  (to  my 
recollection)  heard.  Wishing  this  immediately  discon- 
tinued, I  began  to  cry;  but  the  commotion  growing  only 
more  terrible,  I  abandoned  this  course,  and  hastily  es- 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   A    BUSY   LIFE.  59 

sayed  to  appease  a  power  that  I  could  not  coerce.  I 
performed  the  patty-cake,  repeated  in  a  sweet  voice  the 
three  words  that  I  knew,  and  enacted  a  smile. 

I  know  now  that  it  was  a  thunderstorm  that  I  tried 
to  cajole ;  and  though  I  laugh  at  my  simplicity,  yet  the 
incident  shows,  perhaps,  some  fertility  of  expedient. 

At  the  end  of  the  year,  so  good  progress  had  I 
shown,  so  strong  and  fat  had  I  become,  that  I  was  pro- 
moted to  a  seat  at  the  family  table.  Here  I  found  that 
my  labors  were  none  the  less  exacting,  nor  their  reward 
the  less  gratifying.  Within  twelve  months  I  had  broken 
nearly  a  complete  set  of  china,  and  had  practically 
ruined  a  bale  of  table-cloths.  Devoting  myself  to  the 
great  truths  of  science  —  for  the  study  of  which  I  can 
not  recommend  too  early  a  date  —  I  burned  my  hands 
365  times  on  the  coffee-urn,  and  an  equal  number  of 
times  on  the  tea-pot. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  I  neglected  the 
arts.  Like  every  other  person  who  tells  about  himself, 
I  put  myself  in  the  way  of  learning  everything.  I  in- 
vented hammered  metal-work,  and  myself  hammered 
two  trays  into  artistic  and  shapeless  masses. 

Chapter  II. 

The  studies  in  caloric  and  metallurgy  which  I  have 
mentioned  as  occupying  part  of  my  second  year  were 
pursued  in  intervals  of  rest  from  other  exercises  in  which 
the  bent  of  my  mind  made  me  take  but  little  interest. 

My  father  and  mother,  whom  at  this  time  I  looked 
upon  as  finished  linguists,  were  accustomed  to  insist  on 


6o 


MA  VERICKS. 


my  attempting  to  pronounce  words  of  a  language  other 
than  my  own.  My  mother  was  usually  satisfied  to  rap- 
ture when  I  rendered  any  combination  of  sounds  into 
"  Ah  —  Bung  !  "  but  my  father,  who  affected  to  possess 
a  most  sensitive  ear,  would  often  deny  me  my  ration  of 
milk  (to  spill  on  the  table),  or  of  rare  beef  (to  drop  to 
the  cat),  until  I  had  achieved  a  more  detailed  success. 
He  often  ended  his  lessons  by  charging  me  to  say 
"rhinoceros,"  but  he  did  this  more 
to  confuse  than  to  instruct  me. 
But  though  I  worked 
constantly  at  my  studies,  I 
had  no  surcease  from  man- 
ual labor.  During  my  sec- 
ond year  I  tore  off  four 
square  yards  of  wall-paper, 
spilled  a  quart  of  ink,  wore 
out  six  pairs  of  shoes  and 
sixteen  dresses,  lost  three 
hats,  composed  a  great  num- 
ber of  Scottish  "laments," 
and  put  into  the  grate  at  odd 

intervals  (it  will  be  remembered  that  I  had  only  the 
cold  season  to  work  in,  and  that  a  spy  was  kept  upon 
my  actions  by  my  unscrupulous  parents)  the  following 
property : 

i  thermometer,  i  shaving-brush,  4  papers  of  pins, 
6  important  letters,  2  sets  playing  blocks,  20  playing 
cards,  each  card  from  a  different  pack,  i  jumping-jack 
(old),  i  treatise  on  "How  to  Raise  Children,"  15  toys 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF  A   BUSY  LIFE.  61 

(assorted),  2  quarts  of  water,  and  various  matters  from 
the  desk  of  my  father,  a  writer  by  profession,  among 
these  a  MS.  story,  entitled,  "Mr.  Jimson's  Baby,"  being 
a  wonderfully  humorous  account  of  the  doings  of  a  cer- 
tain infant.  I  burned  this  story  with  some  other  things 
(and  some  others)  to  show  my  father  that  his  own  child 
could  not  be  outvied  in  delicate  humor. 

In  ending  this  chapter,  I  will  say  that  while  I  am 
by  no  means  satisfied  with  these  successes,  they  never- 
theless brought  me  to  higher  and  more  varied  activities. 

- 

Chapter  III. 

Until  the  age  of  two  years,  at  which  I  had  now  ar- 
rived, my  acquaintance  had  been  limited  to  a  class  of 
people  consisting  of  my  parents  and  the  nurse. 

I  will  not  claim  that  I  had  always  the  penetration  to 
regard  these  people  with  disfavor,  but  my  now  advanc- 
ing mental  strength  made  this  a  natural  step.  I  there- 
fore, as  occasion  presented  itself,  abstracted  myself  from 
their  company,  and  sought  the  society  of  the  learned. 
My  first  experience  of  a  wider  life  was  afforded  by 
trips  that  1  took  to  a  subterranean  cavern  beneath  the 
house. 

There  existed  a  marvelous  being  (whom  I  now  have 
occasion  to  suppose  was  our  cook),  and  I  basked  in  the 
rays  of  her  Aspasian  converse.  It  was  from  her  that  I 
obtained  much  of  my  information  concerning  "boogy" 
men."  I  also  became  acquainted  in  the  true  pronunciation 
of  the  Irish  language,  and  well  versed  in  the  arts  of 
Cookery.  Further  (for  I  had  ever  a  practical  turn),  I 


6a 


MA  VE KICKS. 


learned  how  to  take  cookies,  cake  and  bread,  off  the 
table  without  detection,  while  things  more  indigestible 
than  these  the  cook  would  herself  choose  out  with  won- 
derful skill,  and  present  to  me. 

Among  the  unique  and  desirable  possessions  of  the 
cook  was  a  cat ;  and  a  little  computation  that  I  have 
made  shows  that  I  chased  this  cat  more  than  two  thou- 
sand miles.  She  fled  over  a  regular  route,  which  she 
came  to  know  so  well  that  she  was  always  able  to  elude 
me,  but  which  I  came  to  know  so  well  that  never  for 
more  than  an  instant  could  she  remain  in  one  place. 

From  under   the   table  she  went  under  the  stove, 
thence  behind  a  basket,    thence  she  jumped 
into  a  window-seat.     She  always  made  a 
peculiar  sharp  sound  when  I  dislodged 
her   from  this  retreat ;     and   while 
I   stood  somewhat  terrified,  she 
took   advantage    to  jump  un- 
der the  table  again.    But  I 


knew  that  this  position 
offered  no  harm,  and  the 
pursuit  recommenced. 

When   the  cat  and  I 
had    encored   each  other's 
parts  long   enough    to    set 
the  cook  into  a  fit,  she  would 

open  the  door  and  drive  the  cat  out.  It  was  in  the 
language  of  the  soft  North  of  Ireland  that  she  ordered 
the  cat  to  leave,  and  by  fortune  it  was  through  this  cir- 
cumstance that  I  came  more  into  favor  with  my  father, 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   A    BUSY   LIFE.  '  63 

who  was  always  anxious  for  my  linguistic  advancement; 
for,  though  I  still  rendered  very  ill  each  word  that  he 
gave  me  to  pronounce,  he  was  obliged  to  own  to  my 
mother,  when  by  chance  he  heard  me  say  "  Ashgo-roo" 
to  the  cat,  that  I  could  imitate  the  Irish  as  well  as  he 
could  himself —  if  not  better. 

I  have  since  heard  him  tell  Irish  dialect  stories  — 
which  he  generally  tells  in  Dutch  or  Hebrew  —  and  I 
can  bear  this  statement  out. 

During  this  period  my  mind  was  growing  apace. 
At  the  age  of  two  and  one-half  I  became  aware  one  day 
that  /  hiccoughed.  Previously  I  had  had  no  idea  who 
hiccoughed.  At  first  I  tried  to  run  away  from  it,  but 
finding  this  effort  vain,  I  rapped  smartly  on  my  breast, 
and  commanded  :  "  Top  it !  " 

A  second  incident  of  this  time  will  show  that  I  con- 
tinued my  progress  in  science ;  for  my  father  (who,  as 
he  hatT  once  essayed  to  confuse  my  tongue,  now  often 
tried  to  overwhelm  my  reason,)  idly  asking  me  one  day 
in  the  midst  of  a  Minnesota  Winter  where  the  snow 
came  from,  I  immediately  blew  a  Thor-like  blast,  and 
answering,  "Who-o-o  wind,"  gave  him  a  decided  dis- 
comfiture. 

Chapter  IV. 

Having  now  arrived  at  the  age  of  three,  I  was  al- 
lowed to  venture  out  of  doors  to  join  the  children  of 
our  neighbors,  whom  with  wonder  I  had  seen  disporting 
in  strange  but  interesting  games  before  our  windows. 

For  a  long  time  after  I  had  joined  them,  these 
little  people  were  a  mystery  to  me,  and  many  a  heart- 


64  MA  VERICKS. 

ache  I  experienced  at  my  lack  of  success  in  fraternizing 
with  them. 

In  order  to  make  myself  a  welcome  addition  to  their 
party,  I  took  out  with  me  (by  stealth)  my  best  toys. 
Whereupon  they  played  express  with  my  wagon  without 
asking  or  allowing  me  to  participate;  they  rode  my 
velocipede,  while  I,  all  in  good  faith,  made  a  laughing- 
stock of  myself,  by  running  breathless  at  their  side; 
they  whipped  my  top,  and  answered  my  expostulations 
by  threats  of  whipping  me.  When  they  desired  it,  I 
traded  my  toys  for  theirs,  and  in  these  cases  I  had  the 
unhappiness  of  my  own  dissatisfaction  coupled  with  the 
mortification  of  being  considered  a  ninny  by  my  parents, 
who  supposed  that  I  made  the  trades  on  my  judgement. 
When  the  children  grew  tired  of  my  toys  and  my  com- 
plaisance, they  would  go  apart  and  play  by  themselves, 
ostentatiously  affecting  that  while  they  found  my  society 
distasteful,  they  were  fairly  intoxicated  with  the  company 
of  one  another.  And  when  they  were  ready  to  quit  sport 
for  the  day,  they  would  start  a  game  of  hide-and-seek, 
and  without  question  pitching  upon  me  to  blind,  would 
leave  me  to  look  vainly  for  them  after  they  had  scattered 
giggling  to  their  homes. 

In  the  meantime  I  became  a  factor  in  the  adminis- 
tration of  our  house.  The  cook,  whom  I  still  visited, 
had  taken  a  habit  (as  I  learned  from  the  assertions  of 
my  father)  of  retaining  the  paper  when  it  was  delivered 
by  the  newsboy.  Seeing  her  reading  one  evening,  I 
suddenly  demanded  (after  I  had  eaten  to  satiety  of  the 
new  cookies)  "That  old  pakur,  new  pakur?"  "New!" 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF  A    BUSV  LIFE.  65 

stammered  the  guilty  creature.  "Then  give  me  and  I 
give  my  papa,  and  'top  this  monkey  bidnit,"  I  replied. 

Nor  with  my  other  occupations  did  I  neglect  my  in- 
vestigations in  philosophy.  At  luncheon  one  day,  where 
I  ate  in  great  haste  in  order  to  keep  an'  appointment 
with  my  tin  soldiers,  I  took  a  drink  of  water.  Its  effects 
pleased  me  much,  and  drawing  a  long  breath  of  satisfac- 
tion, I  heralded  to  the  family  my  neat  discovery :  "  Ha-a  ! 
cold  water  make  bread  go  down  good." 

As  time  advanced,  becoming  an  equal  party  in  the 
ventures  of  the  children  upon-  the  street,  I  entered  into 
their  pursuits  with  all  my  natural  industry.  We  ran  our 
wagons  hundreds  of  miles,  learned  architecture  in  the 
sand-piles,  instituted  systems  of  money  and  organized 
forces  of  police  to  cope  with  bands  of  robbers.  With 
one  exception  all  went  well  with  me. 

There  was  a  desperado  of  six  who  terrorized  our 
neighborhood,  and  offered  constant  menace  to  our  peace, 
so  that  in  the  end  my  father  felt  obliged  to  report  him 
to  his  parents ;  and  this  was  so  wise  a  step  that  for  a 
week  I  hardly  durst  set  foot  outside  our  door. 

This  enemy  was  at  last  overthrown  in  a  singular 
way.  While  making  free  and  rough  use  one  day  of  my 
wagon,  he  broke  the  box  off  and  bent  the  axle.  He 
knelt  down  to  examine  the  latter,  and  I,  coming  up  with 
the  box  and  staggering  under  its  heavy  weight,  stumbled 
against  the  wheel  and  brought  the  box  down  full  upon 
his  head.  Instead  of  attacking  me,  he  jumped  up  and 
ran  away ;  and  I  found  myself  a  hero  while  the  des- 
perado was  jeered  off  the  street. 


66  MAVERICKS. 

Some  conclusions  of  my  long  study  of  children  may 
here  not  be  amiss.  Though  fickle  and  tyrannical,  they 
are  far  more  agreeable  in  intercourse  than  men ;  for, 
while  children  have  unlimited  expedient  of  converse 
and  amusement,  men  are  entirely  restricted  to  asking 
us  a  few  stale  questions,  such  as,  "How  old  are  you?" 
"What  is  your  name?"  "What  are  you  going  to  be, 
my  boy,  when  you  are  a  man  ?  "  and  to  fetching  us  sly 
cracks,  and  then  looking  away  with  a  pretence  of  play- 
fulness; showing  not  only  great  paucity  of  ideas  but  a 
paltriness  thereof  truly  depressing. 

These  memoirs  of  my  busy  life,  which  now  draw  to 
a  close,  I  end  with  a  feeling  of  sadness.  If  men  dwell 
regretfully  upon  their  youth,  the  memory  of  which  they 
may  at  any  time  recall,  it  is  natural  that  I  should  now 
linger  fondly  upon  my  childhood,  the  memories  of  which 
(as  I  know  from  older  people)  must  soon  be  obscured 
and  lost ;  nay,  which  I  shall  with  mortification  hear 
recalled  when  my  parents  fatuously  tell  my  childish  say- 
ings. How  shadowy  soever  it  may  grow,  this  period  of 
life  has  been  real  to  me ;  it  has  been  made  up  of  days 
coming  and  going,  of  gladness  and  grief,  of  silent  expec- 
tancy of  praise  for  little  acts  of  merit  and  of  hopes  of 
pardon  for  little  trespasses.  I  think  of  the  constant  labor 
that  a  little  fellow  must  undertake  to  learn  from  dumb 
watching  the  meaning  of  smiles  and  of  frowns,  and  then 
from  these,  what  is  thought  good  and  what  bad. 

Other  children  will  no  doubt  find,  as  I  have,  that 
in  this  strange  world  they  must  often  descend  to  hypoc- 
risies to  win  encomiums;  that  they  must  even,  alas, 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  A    BUSY  LIFE.  67 

conceal  their  real  opinion  of  some  traits  of  their  parents. 
Yet  children  have  such  natures  that  they  will  find  some- 
thing in  any  parents  to  love  and  respect ;  and  parents 
can  not  fail  to  see  much  to  rouse  affection  in  the  worst 
of  children. 

I  knew  this  last  when  much  younger  than  I  am 
now ;  for  one  day  when,  after  having  been  freshly  clad,  I 
went  out  and  played  in  the  dirt,  and  my  mother,  obliged 
to  renew  my  dress,  rebuked  me  most  earnestly,  so  that 
no  merit  appeared  in  my  character,  I  nevertheless,  as  I 
have  said,  knew  there  was  still  something  about  me  that 
fastened  her  affection,  and  interrupting  her  by  throwing 
my  arms  around  her  neck,  I  said:  "But  you  love  me 
aucky  hard  allee  same."  And  so  it. turned  out  she  did. 
Good-by  to  you  and  to  my  little  self. 

Cameron  Fish. 
W.  F. 


THE    WIGHT    THAT    QUAILED. 


"Running  through  hot  gulf-streams 
of  gore  up  to  their  eyes," 


THE    WIGHT    THAT    QUAILED. 

By 

GRUBHARD  STRIPLING. 

I. 

fHERE  WAS  a  seashore,  some  guns,  a 
girl  gamin  and  a  boy  gamin. 

These  children  were  born  with- 
out  relations,   were   no   relation   to 
each   other,    and    the   woman   who 
had  them  in  charge  led  them  a  per- 
fect dog's  life  —  a  sort  of  whipper- 
in.     While  beating  them,  she  made 
them    say    so    many    prayers    and 
psalms,   that  for  diversion  the  boy 
took  to  lying,  stealing  and  swear- 
ing.   The  girl  took  to  sassing  back. 
To-day,    both    of  them   have  run   far  away  to  the 
shore,  and  it  is  well  she  can  not  hear  what  the  wild  waifs 
are  saying. 

Nick  had  rifled  from  somewhere  an  old  Winchester 
repeater.  It  was  just  the  thing  for  firing  off  jokes  on 
the  British  public.  But  the  boy  took  no  such  aim. 


72  MA  VERICKS. 

Being   unfortunate    himself,   he  sought    to    make  others 
suffer  by  drawing  their  pictures.      To-day  he  only  shoots 
off  a  few  fingers.     That  makes  Hasie  cry.      That  pleases 
him.      He  laughs.      To  this  Hasie  objects 
so  much,  that  Nick  leaves  off  swear- 
ing long  enough  to  kiss   her. 
Then  they  go  to  walk  with 
a  volatile  goat,  named  Am- 
monia.     As  they  walk,  the 
girl's    long    hair    blows    in 
Nick's  eyes.      It  blinds  the 

boy  for  a  moment.      It  comes  between  him  and  all  his 
future  aims.      Forever  after"  that   his   sight   is   a  little 

dimmed. 

II. 

Midway  between  Afric's  soda  fountains  and  the 
steppes  of  India  Rubba,  is  a  desert.  Here  the  snail 
trains  of  the  British  Civil  Service  Relief  Corps  of  the 
International  Copyright  Syndicate  are  always  obliged 
to  rest  after  a  season  of  equatorial  engagements. 

Torkinow,  the  society  reporter  of  The  Cape  Town 
Tropics,  and  the  captain  of  this  great  caravan,  is  sit- 
ting upon  a  clump  of  cacti,  making  a  pair  of  trousers 
out  of  two  old  ash-barrels. 

An  individual  who  had  fallen  in  with  him  at  a 
Sepoy  dug-out,  sat  somewhat  apart,  drawing  pictures 
on  the  sands  of  the  desert. 

"  Say,  Meissonier,  come  in  out  of  the  simoom,  and 
bring  the  pictures  with  yer  ! "  said  Torkinow.  But  the 
artist  did  n't  move. 


THE    WIGHT   THAT  QUAILED.  73 

"  Show  what  you  have  on  paper,  and  if  I  like  'em 
I  '11  make  your  fortune,"  the  reporter  persisted,  being 
much  taken  with  Nick's  manners.  Oh,  by  the  way, 
this  was  Nick. 

When  he  had  finally  taken  a  look  at  some  cartoons, 
Torkinow  said : 

"Send  'em  to  The  Tropics." 

"Go  there  yourself!"  said  Nick,  trying  to  throw 
dust  in  his  eyes. 

"  Well,  you  Ve  got  sand  !  Those  gory  battle  daubs 
won't  be  worth  a  '  bob '  when  the  War  is  over.  Say, 
Verestchagin,  going  to  open  an  art  gallery  in  the 
Soudan  ?  " 

So  the  drawings  were  sent  to  illustrate  Torkinow's 
fashion  notes. 

Just  at  dawn  one  night  there  was  an  unexpected 
attack  by  native  Hoodoos  on  the  B.  and  S.  Infantry 
—  mostly  beardless  boys.  There  was  a  surge  of  black 
bodies,  a  rush  of  hot  sand,  a  splashing  of  Nile  mud, 
and  assegais  a-flying  through  the  air. 

Swish  !  came  a  simitar  where  Nick  swayed,  grap- 
pling two  Oriental  Musclemen,  while  Torkinow,  for  once 
having  nothing  to  say,  was  engaged  in  poking  out  his 
adversary's  eyes.  Nick  threw  a  back  hand-spring  as 
that  simitar  came  down,  and  grabbed  Torkinow  away 
by  the  hair,  while  he  poured  pistol  shots  around  them, 
running  through  hot  gulf-streams  of  gore  up  to  their 
eyes.  When  he  had  reached  a  place  of  safety,  Tor- 
kinow said  that  Nick  had  saved  his  life.  For  a  time 
the  artist  was  very  wrong  in  the  head.  He  would  cry, 


74  MA  YE  RICKS. 

"See    that    Cartoon!      They  're    after    me,    after  me! 
Cartoon,  Cartoon  !  "     Then,    "  Is  n't  that  Hasie?" 

III. 

Stopping,  on  his  way  home  to  London,  in  many 
populous  towns,  Nick  had  spent  all  his  time  and  money 
in  hunting  out  disreputable  characters,  drinking  them 
into  delirium  tremens,  and,  then,  painting  their  portraits. 
He  had  a  high,  pure  love  for  his  Art. 

After  reaching  London,  he  starved  in  great  shape 
for  some  days,  and  then,  very  leisurely,  he  called  for  his 
monthly  allowance,  and  afterward  invited  himself  to  a 
lunch  of  beefsteak  and  onions,  corned  beef  and  cabbage, 
with  Torkinow. 

Here  Nick  received  a  call  from  one  of  the  proprie- 
tors of  the  Tropics.  This  man  had  come  to  ask  for' 
more  pictures.  But  Nick  had  just  seen  some  of  his  car- 
toons in  a  cigar-shop  where  a  crowd  of  corner  loafers 
had  congregated,  and  the  artist  felt  that  he  and  Fame 
could  henceforth  travel  tete-a-tete,  dispensing  with  the 
party  who  had  introduced  them.  He  was  very  properly 
incensed  at  the  man's  desire  to  retain  the  originals  of  all 
his  drawings ;  but  Nick's  brow-beating  method  of  induc- 
ing him  to  return  them,  proved  that  his  own  late  hair- 
breadth escape  had  made  very  little  impression  on  the 
young  man's  naturally  hard  and  insolent  character. 

After  abusing  thoroughly  this  gentleman,  who  was 
already  afflicted  with  age,  stoutness,  respectability  and 
heart-disease,  this  youth  with  the  fine  artistic  tempera- 
ment went  out  of  doors  to  muse  upon  the  pride  and 


THE    WIGHT    THAT  QUAILED. 


75 


vain-glory,  the  hatred  and  malice  of  humanity  and  all 
the  sordid  aims  of  this  little  life  of  ours. 


IV. 

As  Nick  stood  on  the  embankment,  planning  how 
he  would  one  day  set  the  Thames  on  fire,  a  lady  stood 
within  a  few  feet  of  him  and  a  gray 
cloak ;    and  the  moment  Nick  saw 
her,    he   knew   she  was  Hasie. 
Hasie  was  now  about   twenty ; 
but  she   was   still   wearing  the 
same  cloak  she  wore  at  ten. 

When  Hasie  saw  Nick  she 
nodded  to  him  just  as  if  next 
week  was  the  day  before  yester- 
day. She  said  she  was  glad  he 
was  not  dead,  because  she  needed 
him  to  wash  her  paint-brushes. 

So  she,  too,  was  an  artist ! 

Ought  he  not  to  have  recognized 
ment "  at  her  first  word  ? 

Hasie  said  she  lived  with  a  red-haired  girl  who  was 
a  Suppressionist. 

Hasie's  housekeeping  was  a  good  deal  like  her 
pictures  —  sketchy.  When  Nick  went  to  see  her  he 
found  that  she  subsisted  principally  upon  crackers  and 
chewing-gum;  and  he  dreamed  about  the  time  when  he 
should  have  the  right  to  nurture  her  tenderly  upon 
beefsteak  and  onions,  corned  beef  and  cabbage.  At 
present,  however,  Hasie  had  only  a  palette  for  paint. 


"  the  tempera- 


76  MAVERICKS. 

He  must  now  struggle  to  answer  her  confiding 
appeals  to  his  artistic  taste,  to  explain  to  her  why  all 
her  ideal  heads  invariably  had  a  cast  in  one  eye.  The 
red-haired  Suppressionist  watched  them  silently,  grin- 
ning and  bearing  it.  She  made  faces  and  five  o'clock 
tea  that  tasted  of  turpentine. 

One  day  Nick  came  in  and  thrust  his  umbrella 
through  Hasie's  very  latest.  He  said  in  a  broken  voice: 

"Dear,  you  can't  paint  any  more  than  a  cat.     Your 

• 

pictures  are  chromos.  Besides,  who  wants  Ideals  nowa- 
days ?  Give  up  Ideals  and  try  to  live  down  to  me.  Let 
me  daub  for  both.  I  've  enough  red  paint  to  give  gore 
for  the  millions  who  just  dote  on  my  horrors  of  war. 
The  upper  ten  thousand  prefer  subjects  with  more  polish 
about  them  —  their  own  boots  nicely  varnished.  But  I 
would  even  black  those  for  them  now  to  get  money. 
I  am  mercenary,  dear,  since  I  began  to  dream  of 
Matrimony." 

Up  spoke  the  Suppressionist.  "Paint  a  picture, 
each  of  you,  called  'Matrimony,'  making  it  tell  the  story 
of  one  who  never  told  her  love ;  but  — 

"  Ate  crackers  and  chewing-gum,"  put  in  Nick. 
"  I  take  the  idea.  Hasie,  catchy-vous-on,  as  Krami 
says? " 

V. 

One  day  the  two  girls  went  over  to  France.  The 
cross  in  her  picture's  eye  had  infected  Hasie's  temper. 
But  Nick's  picture  had  the  crookedest  look.  His  model 
herself  perceived  it.  It  was  so  like  her,  and  it  happened 
that  she  was  so  like  everything  hateful  in  woman  that 


THE    WIGHT    THAT  QUAILED. 


77 


for  once  she  saw  herself  as  others  saw  her,  and  loathed 
herself  and  the  artist  who  had  so  strangely  chosen  her 
bad  face  to  illustrate  a  noble  theme. 

Nick  had  meant  this  picture  called  "  Matrimony  " 
to  embody  all  his  best  ideas  of  the  True  and  the  Beauti- 
ful. But,  alas !  his  life  had  made  him  more  familiar 
with  many  forms  of  Falsehood  and  Ugliness,  and  from 
these  his  nature  had  never  shrunk. 


One  evening,  when  the  thermometer  stood  at 
Fahrenheit,  Hasie  had  her  head  out  a  window ;  when 
suddenly  a  huge  white  horse  stopped  at  Hasie's  door. 
The  red-haired  girl  joined  her  friend  at  the  window. 
The  man  on  the  horse  called  out  courteously : 

"  Ah,  there,  Hasie  !     Nick  is  blind." 

Torkinow  had  come  for  her ;  so  this  girl,  who  was 
selfish  and  cold,  a  soul  tied  to  Ideals,  never  doubted  for 
a  moment  that  it  was  her  duty  now  to  marry  Nick  out 


7<y  MA  VERICKS.      • 

of  pity.  She  and  the  red-haired  girl  went  to  London 
and  climbed  up  to  Nick's  studio.  But  before  they 
greeted  the  artist,  a  soiled  canvas  claimed  their  atten- 
tion. 

"Why,  it  is  half  washed  off!  "  cried  Hasie;  "and 
it  is  Nick's  picture  of  '  Matrimony.'  But  no  wonder  his 
better  angel  made  him  destroy  it,  for  it  is  terrible.  It 
has  some  beauty ;  but  it  is  bold  and  hard  and  defiant. 

"If  this  is  Nick's  best,  there  can  not  be  an  atom 
of  Sweetness  and  Light  in  his  whole  composition.  He 
is  blind,  blind  indeed  !  I  can  not  marry  a  man  unable 
to  see  beyond  or  above  this  fleshly  thing.  • 

"  I  quail  before  such  a  sacrifice. 


"  But  you,  my  friend,  can  wed  him.  You  could 
care  for  him  enough  to  try  to  inspire  him  to  better 
things.  You  pretend  to  be  Hasie,  and  Nick  being 
blind,  will  never  know  of  the  deception  !  I  wish  you 
joy  of  him.  This  wight  has  quailed." 


THE    WIGHT    THAT  QUAILED.  79 

Nick  married  the  red-haired  girl,  and  let  her  think 
she  had  fooled  him.  But  he  knew  of  the  deception  all 
the  time,  and  made  the  Suppressionist  a  pretty  hard 
husband. 

There  might  have  been  a  different  ending  to  this 
story.  But  this  is  different  enough.  It  is  not  a  senti- 
mental tale.  It  is  only  a  natural  one.  This  is  an  age 
of  Realism. 

Kate  W.  Rider. 


BIDDY'S   DREAM. 


=s 

V 

<u 
•J! 


s 


BIDDY'S    DREAM. 

WIFE,  BIDDY  O'DWYER,  is  the  quietest,  da- 
centest  crathur  in  this  world.  The  work  she 
can  do  and  her  industhry  bates  creation, 
and  she  's  asy  kept  up,  too,  for  its  very  lit- 
tle she  ates,  and  drinks  nothin'  at  all. 

She  has  a  fine  cowld  hand  for  the  but- 
ther,  which  same  guided  and  directed  me  in  my  choice 
the  day  I  towld  ould  O'Dwyer  I  'd  take  his  Biddy  with 
ten  pounds  down,  the  ould  bay  mare,  and  my  pick  of  his 
runners,  and  if  he  'd  give  me  two  out  of  them,  I  'd  ax 
no  fat  pig,  for  there  was  n't  a  man  in  Ireland,  let  alone 
Connaught,  that  had  purtier  fat  pigs  than  Mike  O'Dwyer. 
"  Aye  !  Mike,"  says  I,  "I  '11  take  your  Biddy,"  says 
I,  "before  and  forninst  Jane  or  Kitty  Duff,  who  are 
posted  up  on  the  chapel  for  fifty  pounds  a-piece,  and  two 
three-year-old  heifers;  and  more  by  token,"  says  I,  "I. '11 
give  her  such  a  haulin'  home  as  what  Queen  Victoria  her- 
self might  be  proud  of,  and  the  Miss  Duffs  'ill  be  in  it 
too,  to  dance  their  quadrilles  and  their  boarding-school 
airs,  while  Biddy  and  I  will  tune  up  a  good  ould  Irish  jig, 
which  I  always  towld  ould  Lynch,  the  piper,  was  the 


finest  dance  in  the  world,  and  I  always  held  to  a  girl 
that  could  airn  her  bread." 

Well,  Mike,  he  agreed  with  me  on  every  p'int,  only 
he  would  not  have  his  colleen  to  go  in  on  the  flure  with 
the  mother,  who  was  livin'  with  me  at  the  same  time. 

I  tovvld  him  punctually  that  I  'd  never  shew  the 
ould  mother  the  dure,  and  on  that  we  nearly  split,  but 
me  sister,  Jenny,  who  married  Mike  Dougherty's  son's 
wife's  brother,  came,  and  she  says,  says  she,  "  let  the 
ould  mother  come  live  with  me,  where  she  '11  always 
have  a  hearty  welcome,  and  an  eye  after  the  little  gos- 
soons when  meself  is  out." 

Well,  it  was  fixed  that  way,  and  a  fine  weddin'  we 
had,  sorra  less,  roast  beef  and  swate  cake,  and  lashins  of 
whiskey,  and  the  height  of  good  luck;  and  the  finest 
family  we  've  had  since,  and  a  complater  couple  there 


BIDDY'S   DREAM.  85 

is  n't  on  the  townland.  But  after  and  all,  Biddy  has 
one  failin' ;  she  's  a  shockin'  dhramer,  the  shockin'ist 
dhramer  ever  I  come  across.  There  's  not  a  mornin', 
good  luck  to  her,  but  she  '11  have  this:  "Oh,  John,  I 
dhramed  a  dhrame;"  and  I  '11  say,  "Whisht,  now, 
Biddy,"  but  she  '11  have  it  out  in  the  spite  of  me. 

Faix  !  I  believe  if  it  was  kep'  in  on  her  she  'd  choke. 
Well,  one  mornin',  anyhow,  she  begun  : 

"John,  I  dhrame'd  a  quare  dhrame." 

"Now,"  says  I  to  meself,  "John,  you  are  in  for  it, 
any  way." 

"Yes,  John,"  said  she,  "I  dhramed  a  dhrame,  and 
when  I  dhrame  it  's  sure  to  come  in  true,"  says  she. 

"  Oh,"  says  I,  "  sometimes  it  does,  and  more  times 
it  does  n't." 

"Well,"  says  she,  "any  way  I  dhramed  a  dhrame, 
and  in  my  dhrame  I  seen  two  black  rats  lookin'  across 
the  wall.  The  black  rats  is  inimies,  John,  and  the  wall 
is  your  purtection.  Then  all  of  a  suddint  I  seen  their 
fiery  eyes  lookin'  at  you.  That  showed  they  were  fierce 
agin  you. 

"Then  I  saw  that  one  had  on  Jack  Dooner's  new 
frieze  coat,  and  the  other  Mike  Farrel's  ould  caubeen ; 
that  showed  me  who  they  were.  Then  I  saw  they  had 
two  long  grinnin'  teeth  a-piece,  and  great  claws,  which 
towld  me  tney  had  a  power  to  injure  you.  So  then  I 
jined  to  study  the  wall  that  was  your  purtection,  John, 
and  I  seen  that  it  was  hung  all  over  with  Father  Pether's 
robes  and  vistmints ;  so  now,  John,  take  heed  to  what  I 
say,  and  whatsomever  there  is  betuxt  John  Dooner,  Mike 


86  MA  V BRICKS. 

Farrell  and  yourself,  tell  it  all  fair  and  straight  to  Father 
Pether." 

"Ah,  don't  be  botherin'  us,"  says  I;  and  I  knowin' 
well  what  she  meant. 

"Tell  it  all  to  Father  Pether,"  says  she. 

"  Hould  your  tongue,"  says  I ;  and  with  that  I  tuk 
up  my  hat,  and  out  I  walked. 

"You'll  have  no  luck  till  ye  do,"  she  shouted 
after  me. 

Well,  I  went  on  to  land  the  praties,  but  what  she 
said  stuck  in  me  mind  the  whole  mortial  day ;    not  that 
meself  ever  gave  in   to  her  dhrames,  but  it  happened 
that  the  week  before,  Mike  Farrell,  Dooner  and  meself, 
whose  farms  all   mearined  with   that  villain   Duffs  big 
farm,  had  a  differ   with   Duff  about    mendin'  the   gaps,      * 
and  we  left  it  on  Father  Pether  to  arbithrate,  and  \t§ 
give  it  agin  us. 

So  we  swore  we  'd  pull  the  wizends  out  of  every 
Duff  on  the  townland,  and  tar  and  feather  Father  Pether 
himself;  and  we  were  due  to  do  it  the  same  next  night, 
it  bein'  Thursday,  the  market  day  of  Ballycroughoo, 
and  a  holiday  market,  too,  and  Duff  was  to  drive  Father 
Pether  on  his  own  side  car.  Well,  not  a  time  I  'd  put 
in  the  loy  to  turn  a  sod  that  day,  but  I  kep'  twistin'  it  in. 
my  mind  what  I  'd  do,  for  I  knew  well  that  it  was  very 
disrespictful  and  a  great  liberty  intirely  for  us  to  take 
with  his  Riverence,  and  still  I  felt  loth  to  turn  on  me 
friends,  and  I  knew  they  were  both  madder  agin  him 
nor  I  was  meself,  and  that  I  would  never  turn  them 
from  their  just  revenge. 


BIDDY'S   DREAM. 


So,  when  I  come  in  to  my  dinner,  the  wife  says  to 
me,  says  she : 

"John,  the  praties  are  n't  biled  yet,  nor  won't  this 
half  hour ;  I  had  to  bile  an  extra  pot  for  the  pigs,  the 
crathurs,  good  luck  to  them,  an'  growin',  an'  thriving 
and  'atin'  out  of  the  face.  They  're  iligant  feeders  as 
iver  I  seen.  Here  's  yer  Sunday  hat,  John,"  says  she. 

"  What   do   I   want   with   my  Sunday   hat,"  says   I, 
but  I  tuk  hoult  of  it,  all   the  same,   and  out  I  stepped 
ag'in,  and  I  says,    "Biddy,"   says  I,  "if  I  do 
this,  we  must  quit  the  counthry  at  onst." 

"John,"  says  she,  and  she  took 
hoult  of  me  two  hands,  "  you  're  an 
honest  man,  and  are  n't  we  under 
notice  for  non-payment  of  rent,  and 
have  n't  I  beyant  sixty  pounds  in  the 
ould  stocking,  and  the  childher  are 
hardy,  God  bless  'em,  and  my  father  'ud 
take  the  thrifle  of  stock  off  our  hands ;  and 
supposin'  we  had  to  make  a  moonlight  flit- 
tin'  itself,  what  better  could  we  do  nor  go 
to  Ameriky,  where  I  have  siven  first  cousins  an  me 
great-grandmother  Clark's  side  of  the  house,  and  more 
nor  that  of  near  friends.  So,  John,  dear,  don't  let  the 
boys  tempt  you  to  do  anything  agin  your  conscience;  " 
and  with  that  she  pushed  me  through  the  dure,  and  off 
I  went  and  tould  Father  Pether  the  whole  business,  and 
got  full  absolution,  good  luck  to  his  Riverence. 

"  And  now,  John,  you  misfortunate  crathur,  what 
do  you  mane  to  be  afther  doin'  ?  "  says  he,  "  for  I  know 


88  MAVERICKS.     • 

them  fellows  well,  and  afther  this  day's  work  yees  can't 
stay  here."  So  then  I  up  and  tould  what  Biddy  said, 
and  he  wrote  and  tuk  the  passages  for  the  whole  of  us, 
and  we  started  two  days  after,  by  the  assisted  immigra- 
tion, and  that 's  how  Biddy's  dhrame  dhrove  us  all  out 
of  the  counthry. 

But  we  done  right  well  ever  since,  and  had  no  cause 
to  regret  it,  for  we  throve  apace,  and  the  seven  daugh- 
ters made  the  best  of  good  matches,  and  the  boys  did 
raal  well,  too,  for  I  gave  them  an  iligant  education. 

Biddy  and  meself  takes  no  sort  of  throuble  about 
anything  now,  but  just  sits  and  smokes  our  pipes  in 
peace  and  comfort.  A 

As  to  the  ould  counthry,  I  hear  from  all  parts  hew 
all  the  neighbors  regretted  us  so  much  that  they  boy- 
cotted the  farm,  and  no  one  has  dared  to  luk  at  it  since, 
only  them  as  lives  close  by  grazes  their  cattle  on  it  in 
peace  and  comfort ;  only  ould  Duff,  which  is  a  comfort 
to  me,  he  is  obligated  to  keep  up  his  fences  and  not  let 
a  tail  in  on  it. 

So  much  for  the  ould  counthry,  which  I  still  love  in 
my  heart,  for  there  's  no  land  like  it  for  real  pleasure 
and  friendliness  and  good-fellowship  and  neighborly, 
too ;  for  if  it  had  n't  been  for  the  neighbors,  I  'd  never 
have  left  it. 

George  H.  Jessop. 


TRUE   LOVE'S  TRIUMPH. 


;  farewell  forever  ! 


TRUE     LOVE'S     TRIUMPH. 

[While  the  obvious  trend  of  so  much  of  our  recent  fiction  is 
in  the  direction  of  anatomical  realism,  and  concerns  itself  with 
expounding  different  phases  of  passion,  or  denning  the  ethics 
supposed  to  govern  impromptu  osculation,  it  is  refreshing  to  note 
that  the  stories  of  which  the  following  is  modestly  proffered  as  a 
model,  still  retain  their  pristine  innocence  of  that  blush-suffusing 
leaven  which  assails  the  cheeks  of  young  persons  from  literature 
less  immaculate.  These  stories  lurk  among  the  "patent  insides  " 
of  country  weeklies,  affecting  a  position  in  the  northwest  corner 
of  the  third  page,  between  a  four-stanza  poem  on  the  Battle  of 
Waterloo,  and  "Hints  to  Farmers."] 

S~\F  ALL  THE  GUESTS  at  the  great  seaside  hotel,  none 
^•^  excited  more  admiration  than  did  John  Hemlock 
and  his  beautiful  fiancee,  Valerian  Mclntosh. 

Miss  Mclntosh  was  a  superb  creature,  tall  and 
stately,  with  a  wealth  of  golden  hair.  Her  eyes  at  times 
gave  forth  a  cold,  hard  look,  and  her  hauteur  was  chill- 
ing when  she  came  in  contact  with  those  she  deemed 
beneath  her.  Her  nature  was  selfish  ;  at  least,  so  thought 
little  Mary  Bloggs,  as  she  watched  the  pair.  As  John 
Hemlock,  with  his  manly  form,  and  refined,  handsome 
face,  hovered  fondly  over  the  chair  of  Miss  Mclntosh,  it 
was  evident  he  was  enth.ra.lled  by  her  beauty ;  and  Mary 


MAVERICKS. 


suffered  a  good  deal  of  anguish,  for  she  had  learned  to 
love  this  man  with  all  the  wild,  untrammeled  fervor  of 
her  nature.     It  was   the   first  love  of  her    pure, 
young  life ;   and  when  she  saw  how  completely 
her  idol  was  in  the  power  of  this  heartless 
creature,  how  useless  would  be  any  attempt 
to   reason  with   him,   and  point  out  his 
folly,  it  made  her  positively  ill.    She  was 
a  demure,  shy  little  creature,  with  dark, 
wavy  hair,  and  great  questioning,  brown 
eyes  that  prevented  one  from  noting  the  . 
other  beauties  of  her  face.     Perhaps  4t 
was  just  as  well. 

John   Hemlock  had  spoken  to  her 
casually  a  few  times,   with  reference  to 
the    prevailing    temperature ;    and   then, 
how  madly  her  poor  little  heart  had  beaten, 
until  her  soul  seemed  ready  to  burst  from  its 
defy  the  cold    formality   that  surrounded  them, 
and  mingle  with  his  soul  forever  ! 

A  pretty  scene  this  would  have  made,  right  in  front 
of  the  hotel ;   but  that  is  how  she  felt,  any  how. 


prison, 


"  Of  course,  if  matters  are  as  you  state,  if  your 
uncle  has  left  you  nothing  but  his  old  secretary,  you  are 
a  poor  man;  and,  for  reasons  which  1  will  charitably 
refrain  from  enumerating,  there  is  a  permanency  attach- 
ing to  this  condition,  which  impels  me  to  seek  a  release 


TRUE   LOVE'S    TRIUMPH.  9J 

from  the  troth  I  plighted  when  your  financial  perspective 
presented  a  more  roseate  hue." 

The  intelligent  reader  will  identify  the  speaker, 
without  hesitation. 

"  Ha,  ha,  perfidious  one  !  "  remarked  John  Hem- 
lock, with  hoarse  conventionality,  "you  will  never  know 
how  you  have  wrung  my  heart,  and  twisted  and  black- 
ened some  of  the  very  finest  chords  in  my  nature. 
Henceforth,  I  shall  be  a  cynical  man  of  the  world,  and 
say  awfully  sarcastic  remarks  about  your  sex,  like  the 
dissipated  noblemen  in  Ouida's  novels.  Farewell  for- 
ever !  I  shall  leave  for  a  foreign  shore,  probably  some 
time  this  evening." 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  a  maneuver  noticeably  char- 
acteristic of  the  termination  of  heated  interviews,  and 
walked  sadly  away  by  himself  (his  invariable  custom 
when  he  wished  to  be  alone),  cogitating,  possibly,  as  to 
how  closely  his  available  assets  would  permit  him  to 
approximate  that  statement  about  the  foreign  shore. 
The  cool  evening  breeze  fanned  his  burning  brow,  and 
a  number  of  stars  glimmered  some  distance  above  him. 
From  the  open  windows  near  by  came  bursts  of  laughter 
and  intermittent  fragments  of  song.  He  thought,  with 
a  bitter  smile,  that  this  gay  life  was  no  longer  for  him, 
and  regretted  that  She  was  not  there,  to  see  how  bitterly 
he  could  smile  when  he  put  his  mind  to  it. 

Suddenly  the  sounds  of  mirth  subside,  and  a  bird- 
like  voice,  clear  as  a  bell,  full  of  a  rare,  sympathetic 
tenderness,  takes  up  the  melody  of  an  old  Scotch  song; 
and,  as  he  listens,  his  being  thrills  with  new  life. 


94  MA  V BRICKS. 

Mary  Bloggs  arose  from  the  piano  with  all  her -in- 
herent grace,  leaving  the  piano  where  it  was,  however, 
and  stepped  out  upon  the  dimly-lighted  piazza.  She 
started,  as  she  saw  John  Hemlock's  pale  face. 

"You  appear  ill,"  she  said,  not  unkindly. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  replied,  brushing  his  hand  across 
his  forehead,  as  he  had  seen  worried  people  do;  "I  have 
been  listening  to  the  voice  of  the  girl  I  love.  Oh,  could 
you  but  know  how  that  exquisite  song  has  moved  me  !  " 

Poor  little  retiring  Mary  trembled  strangely,  and 
wondered  what  he  would  say  next. 

"Believe  me,"  he  said,  "if  I  have,  in  the  past, 
seemed  to  care  for  another.  I  was  the  victim  of  a  de- 
lusion ;  the  spell  is  broken,  and  I  now  see  that  I  love 
but  you." 

"I,  also,  have  loved  you  a  great  deal  from  the  first, 
sir,"  said  Mary,  in  quiet,  well-bred  tones;  "and  I  have 
heard  to-night  of  your  deceased  relative's  testamentary 
remissness ;  but  my  love  is  far  too  noble,  too  unselfish  to 
be  hurt  much  by  a  thing  like  that." 

And  John  Hemlock,  in  his  new-found  happiness, 
wondered  how,  for  a  moment,  he  could  have  fancied 
another. 

"  I  am  very  poor,"  said  Mary;  "  I  used  to  canvass 
for  an  encyclopedia,  but  finding  the  pedestrianism  and 
the  emoluments  it  involved  sadly  disproportionate,  I 
took  up  Art,  and  now  support  four  infirm  maiden  aunts, 
also  myself,  by  painting  things  for  Brooklyn  art  dealers ; 
but  I  am  sure,  dear,  that,  strengthened  and  guided  by 
your  love,  I  can  help  you  to  fight  Life's  battle;"  and 


TRUE  LOWS   TRIUMPH. 


95 


her  voice  was  full  of  a  strange  sweetness,  that  touched 
John  Hemlock. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  cheerfully;  "and  I  will  write 
magazine  articles  and  critiques,  though  I  will  probably 
not  receive  more  than  six  or  eight  thousand  dollars  a 
year  for  the  first  few  years;  but  after  that,  when  I  have 
had  a  little  practice  —  "  and  his  face  was  flushed  with  a 
dawning  knowledge  of  the  latent  possibilities  he  encom- 
passed. "While  it  is  true,"  and  there  came 
a  far-away  look  into  his  eyes,  "I  had  an- 
ticipated a  somewhat  different  disposition 
of  my  uncle's  fortune,  I  shall,  never- 
theless, accept  my  small  inheritance 
in  a  becoming  manner,  and  to-mor- 
row I  will  run  up  to  town  and  dis- 
pose of  the  old  secretary.  It  will 
bring  at  least  twelve  dollars;  but 
with  you,  darling,"  and  his  rich, 
manly  tones  bespoke  infinite  tender- 
ness, "I  would  even  be  willing  to 
face  life  empty-handed." 


Two  days  later,  John  Hemlock  returned. 

"Are  you  sure  you  love  me?"  he  asked  her,  anx- 
iously. ."Are  you  still  willing  to  become  a  poor  man's 
bride  ?  " 

"Ah  yes  indeed  I  am  quite  willing  I  assure  you 
how  can  you  ever  doubt  me  ?  "  said  Mary  Bloggs,  with 
tremulous  disregard  for  punctuation. 


<X>  MAVERICKS. 

"  Then,  noble  girl,  behold  your  reward!"  and 
John  Hemlock  waved  before  her  astonished  eyes  a  large 
roll  of  currency.  "Here  are  nine  million  dollars,  which 
I  found  hidden  in  a  secret  compartment  of  the  old  sec- 
retary ;  with  this,  and  the  income  from  my  pen,  I  shall 
be  enabled  to  support  you  in  comparative  affluence." 


"  Oh,  is  n't  that  nice  !  "  said  Mary,  well  nigh  over- 
come;   and  she  hid  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

And  no  happier  pair  could  be  found  in  all  the  land, 
than  John  Hemlock  and  Mary  Bloggs. 

H.  L.  Wilson. 


AUNT  MARY'S  OBITUARY. 


AUNT   MARY'S    OBITUARY. 


TEN    O'CLOCK   in    the 
office     of     the     Beanville 
Clarion,    and    by  two   the 
forms    must    be   ready   for 
the   press.     Seated    in    his 
easy -chair    by    the    office 
stove,    the   editorial    "We" 
lit    a    pipe    and    abandoned 
himself  to  a  few  moments  of 
well-earned  relaxation. 
Secure   in   the   consciousness  that 

all  the  "locals"  had  been  gathered  in,  that  the  first 
Spring  batch  of  county  snake  stories  had  been  read  and 
corrected,  and  that  Jack,  the  apprentice,  was  now  on 
his  way  to  the  undertaker's  shop  to  get  a  list  of  the 
deaths,  the  editor  felt  that  he  could  well  indulge  in  a  fif- 
teen minute  smoke  and  meditation.  There  was  nothing 
more  to  do  except  to  write  the  death  notices  and  to  pre- 
pare whatever  obituary  paragraphs  might  be  necessary. 
"Any  new  deaths,  Jack?"  enquired  the  editor,  as 
the  apprentice  entered  the  office. 


too  MAVERICKS. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  boy,  laying  a  bit  of  paper  on 
the  desk;  "old  Miss  Larrabee  died  yesterday." 

John  Whittlesea,  editor  of  the  Beanville  Clarion, 
leaped  from  his  ehajr  and  then  fell  back  into  it,  gasping 
for  breath,  while  his  face  turned  white  and  then  red,  and 
his  hand  shook  as  he  tried  to  read  the  slip  of  dirty  paper 
that  lay  on  the  desk  before  him. 

There  it  was,  plain  enough,  just  as  the  boy  had 
copied  it  from  the  silver  plate  in  the  undertaker's  shop : 

Mary  Larrabee. 
Born,  1851 -^- Died,  1890. 

"Jack,"  said  the  editor,  in  an  eager,  excited  voice; 
"are  you  sure  you  got  this  straight?" 

"In  course,  I  am,"  replied  the  boy;  "I  copied  it 
off  the  coffin  plate,  same  as  I  did  the  others,  same  as  I 
always  do." 

"  What  sort  of  a  coffin  was  it  ?  " 

"I  did  n't  see  no  coffin.  They  was  just  a-finishing 
the  plate." 

"  Likely  enough  it  's  a  pine  one,"  rejoined  the  edi- 
torial Whittlesea.  "  She  probably  bargained  for  it  with 
old  Screws  two  weeks  before  she  died.  'Born,  1851  !' 
Surely,  that  must  be  a  mistake.  I  '11  bet  it's  1831." 

"No,  't  ain't,"  declared  Jack,  sturdily.  "I  knowed 
she  was  older  'n  that,  so  I  looked  at  it  twicet." 

"Well,  you  go  downstairs  and  tell  Bill  Clarke  to 
keep  the  front  page  open  for  an  obituary.  He  can  put 
that  clothing  ad.  in  the  other  form." 

Jack    clattered    off   to    the    composing    room,    and 


AUNT  MARY'S  OBITUARY.  for 

Whittlcsea  tilted  back  his  chair,  put  his  feet  on  the  desk 
and  began  to  think  very  industriously.  Old  Mary  Lar- 
rabec  had  lived  for  more  years  than  any  one  could  re- 
member in  the  rickety,  rambling  old  homestead  at  the 
foot  of  Bald  Cliff.  The  house  had  been  built  by  her 
grandfather  a  dozen  years  before  the  Revolution.  Her 
father  had  been  born  and  had  died  in  the  south  chamber 
over  the  family  "  settin'-room,"  and  Mary,  the  last  of 
her  line,  had  never  been  for  more  than  a  week  at  a 
time  out  of  the  house  in  which  she  had  drawn  her  first 
breath,  and  in  which,  since  her  father's  death,  she  had 
dwelt  alone  with  no  companionship  but  that  of  her 
parrot  and  the  neighbor  who  came  in  every  day  to  help 
with  the  housework. 

Old  Mary  Larrabee  had  but  one  blood  relation  in 
the  world  —  her  niece,  Matilda  —  whom  she  had  never 
forgiven  for  marrying  against  her  wishes.  That  niece 
had  married  John  Whittlesea,  at  that  time  a  journeyman 
printer,  and  now  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Beanville 
Clarion. 

No;  she  had  never  forgiven  poor  Matilda,  unless 
she  had  done  so  during  the  last  week  of  her  life,  and 
that  was  a  point  that  John  Whittlesea  was  very  curious 
about  just  at  this  moment,  for  the  Larrabees  had  always 
been  a  thrifty  and  saving  people,  and  there  was  no 
doubt  that  "Aunt  Mary"  was  the  possessor  of  a  snug 
sum  laid  away  in  bank  stocks  and  government  bonds, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  broad  fertile  acres  that  stretched 
from  end  to  end  of'"  Larrabee's  Hollow." 

"  Where  would  all  this  property  go  if  not  to  Ma- 


102  MA  VERICKS. 

tilda?"  said  John  to  himself,  as  he  puffed  gleefully  away 
at  his  pipe.  Then  he  turned  white  about  the  gills  as 
he  recalled  Aunt  Mary's  fondness  for  a  certain  Home  for 
Friendless  Seventh  Day  Baptists  in  Hartford,  to  which 
she  had  once  contributed  six  quilts  of  her  own  making, 
—  a  burst  of  generosity  that  set  the  whole  neighborhood 
talking,  and  started  the  rumor  that  she  had  made  her 
will  in  favor  of  that  admirable  charity.  She  certainly 
had  been  closeted  with  Squire  Doolittle  a  whole  after- 
noon a  few  days  after  the  big  bundle  of  quilts  was 
expressed  to  the  Hartford  institution ;  but  what  had 
taken  place  during  that  interview,  whether  she  had 
made  a  new  will  or  altered  an  old  one,  was  never  re- 
vealed to  the  curious  ones  of  Beanville.  No  one  dared 
to  ask  the  Squire,  and  as  for  Mary  Larrabee,  she  was 
as  tight  as  the  traditional  drum  in  regard  to  whatever 
concerned  herself,  though  decidedly  free  with  her  tongue 
whenever  any  of  the  neighbors  were  being  weighed  in 
the  balance. 

"  She  could  n't  have  had  the  heart  to  cut  Matilda 
off  entirely,"  meditated  John.  "I  '11  bet  she  's  left  that 
parrot  of  hers  an  income  for  the  rest  of  its  life.  It  's 
the  only  thing  that  breathes  she  ever  cared  for.  'Born, 
1851  !'  Why,  Mary  Larrabee  was  sixty-three  last  Janu- 
uary  —  though  she  never  would  own  to  forty.  I  never 
did  see  any  one  as  sensitive  as  she  was  about  her  age. 
I  believe  the  real  reason  she  was  down  on  me  was  that 
paragraph  I  put  in  fifteen  years  ago  about  her  birthday 
party.  Well,  it  was  a  sort  of  mean  dig,  I  '11  admit." 

He  smiled  as  he  recalled  her  foolish  endeavors  to 


AUNT  MARY'S  OBITUARY.  ™3 

pass  for  twenty-five  years  younger  than  she  was,  in  the 
community  in  which  she  had  been  born  and  brought  up. 

John  Whittlesea  might  have  gone  on  with  his  medi- 
tations until  two  o'clock  if  he  had  not  been  awakened 
by  a  sharp  demand  for  copy,  shouted  by  the  foreman 
through  the  speaking  tube ;  and  a  moment  later  Jack 
appeared  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  said  that  the  lady 
compositors,  wanted  to  know  if  there  was  to  be  any  more 
matter  to  set  that  day. 

"  Yes,"  exclaimed  tne  editor,  suddenly  bringing 
down  his  chair  on  four  legs,  and  taking  up  his  pen; 
"wait  a  minute  and  you  can  take  down  the  first  page 
of  this  obituary." 

He  was  in  a  hopeful  mood  as  he  began  the  con- 
ventional paragraph  about  the  "sad  and  unexpected 
removal  from  our  midst  of  Miss  Mary  Larrabee,  a  mem- 
ber of  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  the  county,  and  a 
woman  whose  liberal  and  unostentatious  charities  —  " 

He  smiled  when  he  came  to  this,  laid  down  his 
pen,  reflected  for  a  moment,  and  then  tore  the  page  up 
and  started  afresh.  He  had  written  and  sent  downstairs 
three  or  four  pages  of  manuscript  —  enough  to  keep  the 
lady  compositors  quiet  for  a  few  minutes  —  when  the 
absurdity  of  what  he  was  writing  suddenly  struck  him. 
There  was  not  a  man,  woman  or  child  in  the  whole 
county  who  did  not  know  exactly  how  he  stood  in  re- 
gard to  Aunt  Mary  Larrabee,  and  how  ridiculous  it  must 
seem  to  them  to  read  his  edifying  remarks  about  the 
"grief-stricken  relatives  bowing  in  resignation  to  the 
Divine  Will." 


104.          ,  MA  VRRICKS. 

"  If  I  tried  to  write  a  comic  obituary  it  could  n't 
be  funnier  than  that." 

He  took  up  his  pen  again,  and  a  malicious  grin 
spread  over  his  features  as  he  wrote  the  concluding 
pages  of  the  notice. 

"There,"  he  said  to  the  boy,  "have  that  set  up 
right  away,  and  then  the  forms  can  go  to  press.  Don't 
forget  to  leave  a  couple  of  papers  at  my  house.  I  've 
got  to  go  out  to  Bricktop  Corners  and  won't  be  back 
till  late  in  the  afternoon." 

It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  John  Whittlesea 
reached  home  and  found  his  wife  waiting  for  him  on 
the  doorstep. 

"  O  John!"  she  cried;  "what  do  you  think  has 
happened  ?  Aunt  Mary  — 

"I  know,  dear,"  he  responded;  "I  heard  about  it 
downstrcet,  and  you  '11  find  it  all  in  the  paper  this  after- 
noon. When  is  the  funeral  to  be?" 

"They're  going  to  bury  her  to-morrow,  and  we 
must  go.  Aunt  Mary  was  here  herself  to  tell  us  about  it, 
only  half  an  hour  ago  —  why,  what's  the  matter,  John? 
Are  you  sick  ?  " 

The  editor  of  the  Clarion  was  leaning  against  the 
house,  with  a  face  as  white  as  chalk. 

"Aunt  Mary  was  here  half  an  hour  ago  to  invite 
us  to  attend  her  own  funeral  ?  "  he  gasped. 

"No;  the  funeral  of  her  parrot,  which  died  yester- 
day. And  she  says  she  's  no  one  but  us  to  love,  now 
that  the  bird  has  gone,  and  she  's  going  to  bury  her  in  a 
beautiful  rose -wood  coffin,  with  her  name  on  a  silver 


AUNT  MARY'S  OBITUARY. 


105 


plate ;  and  she  asked  how  you  were  getting  along,  and  I 
left  her  in  the  parlor  looking  over  to-day's  paper  the  boy 
brought  up  for  you.  She  seemed  real  interested ;  but 
when  I  came  back  she  'd  gone  away.  Why,  what  's  the 
matter,  John  ?  " 

"  Matter  enough,"  replied  the  editor;  "let  me  see 
that  paper.  Yes ;  I  thought  so.  Read  that  obituary,  and 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  the  last  paragraph." 

The  paragraph  read  as  follows : 


'•Our  grief  and  agitation  as  we  pen  these  hurried 
lines  can  only  be  appreciated  by  those  who  have  been 
similarly  afflicted.  To  lose  a  wife's  aunt,  and  be  uncer- 
tain whether  the  hoardings  of  sixty  years  will  enrich  the 


io6.  MA  VERICKS. 

editorial  coffers  or  swell  the  fund  for  the  preservation  of 
friendless  Seventh  Day  Baptists  is  a  grief  of  bitterness 
which  is  like  that  of  death  itself;  and  not  until  this 
matter  has  been  decided  will  the  editorial  head  lie  easy 
on  its  pillow." 

/.  L.  Ford. 


INTERNECINE    COMPARISON. 


'-'A   most  interesting  game  of  poker," 


INTERNECINE    COMPARISON. 


E  WERE    IN    CAMP   at 

Newport  News,  and 
my  tent  had  been 
unluckily    pitched 
on  as  the  rendez- 
vous for  about  all 
the  harum-scarum 
lights  of  the  regi- 
ment. Matters  bel- 
licose had  been  so 
quiet  for  a  month 
that  the  men  were 
getting  careless  and 
uneasy.      The    officers 
had  planned  more  fake  cam- 
paigns,  and  partaken  of  more 
"Sutler's   Squeeze"   than  was   con- 
ducive to  the  best  of  discipline ;   and,  taken  all  around, 
there  was  a  spirit  of  happy-go-luckiness  in  the  air,  ill 
fitting    the   seriousness   of   the   complications    that    had 
brought  us  into  soldiering. 


no  MA  VERICKS. 

Tom  Kelso's  mother  had  sent  him  a  box  of  circular- 
pressed  Damascus  figs  some  weeks  before  the  transport 
left  New  York,  and  as  the  package  had  been  billed  by 
mistake  to  Newport,  Kentucky,  and  from  there  to  New- 
port, Rhode  Island,  prior  to  its  getting  on  the  right  track, 
and  had  lain  in  the  store-house  at  the  News,  marked  be- 
yond recognition,  for  two  months  after  our  arrival,  the 
fruit  had  assumed  a  consistency-and  polish  suggestive, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  of  a  fair  quality  of  poker-chips. 

The  resemblance  was  quickly  noted  as  soon  as  the 
box  was  opened ;  and  after  Tom  had  worn  the  enamel 
from  a  tooth  and  English  expletives  out  in  an  effort 
to  be  filial,  he  turned  the  case  over  to  the  mess;  and 
one  evening  found  the  condiments  stacked  at  a  quarter 
a-piece  on  the  four  respective  corners  of  the  Adjutant's 
table. 

As  I  was  the  Adjutant,  courtesy  would  not  permit 
me  to  object,  and  with  Tom  as  first  dealer,  the  Doctor 
as  "age,"  and  the  old  Colonel  as  the  "blind,"  a  most 
interesting  game  of  poker  was  soon  under  way. 

Like  most  similar  games,  it  had  its  ups  and  downs, 
and  at  the  end  of  three  hours  I  had  to  buy  a  double 
stack,  and  start  in  anew. 

The  Colonel,  who  was  banking,  had  eaten  several 
of  the  softer  of  his  chips  by  this  time ;  but  he  was  good 
for  any  reasonable  amount,  and  as  he  could,  by  no  possi- 
bility, eat  them  fast,  we  said  nothing,  and  the  game 
went  on. 

This  is  not  a  poker  story,  so  that  those  who  have 
followed  it  along  in  the  expectation  of  reading  of  some 


INTERNECINE    COMPARISON. 


phenomenal  winning  on  a'"  rag-end-flush,"  or 
of  a  jack-pot  that  stacked  up  so  high  that 
it   lifted    the    tent  ridge-pole,   will,   like 
many  side-column  readers  of  the  press, 
be  patent-medicined. 

I  only  wanted  to  give  a  phase 
of  human  nature,  which  intro- 
duced itself  just  after  my  second 
investment,  when  the  Colonel  was 
called  out  by  an  orderly  to  look  at 
a  suspicious  package  for  the  sutler, 
marked  "hymnals." 

The  Colonel  was  a  gentleman, 
and  a  brave  and    gallant    soldier; 
but  by  some  accident,  either  hereditary 
or  otherwise,  he  was  fitted  with  a  head 
shaped  more  than  anything  else  like  an  im- 
mense pear  set  on  his  neck,  so  that  his  nose 
answered  for  the  stem. 

As  hands  were  laid  down,  and  he  disappeared 
through  the  tent-flap,  Kelso  observed : 

"  I  've  traveled  to  a  considerable  extent,  and  as  a 
diligent  observer  have  noted  a  great  many  people,  but 
that  man  has  got  the  queerest-shaped  head  of  any  one 
I  ever  came  across.  Wonder  what  kind  of  spasm  struck 
Nature  when  she  flag-topped  him  like  that." 

Just  then  the  Colonel  appeared  again,  and  the 
entrance  of  his  face  through  the  canvas  aperture  did 
suggest  a  sun -fish  ploughing  through  a  wave.  The 
game  was  continued,  until  a  little  later  the  Doctor  was 


112  MA  VERICKS. 

called  out  to  attend  a  man  who  had  snapped  the  gun- 
lock  on  his  finger  in  an  effort  to  light  his  pipe  from 
a  percussion  cap.  Hands  went  down  again,  and  the 
Colonel  observed : 

"There  goes  a  good  surgeon  and  a  good  man,  but 
he  's  got  the  blamedest  looking  nose  I  ever  saw.  Looks 
as  if  it  had  been  caught  in  a  muskrat  trap.  Of  course, 
I  would  n't  ask  him  for  the  world  what  the  matter  is 
with  it,  but  I  'd  give  a  month's  pay  to  know. 

"Pass  that  throat-vase,  will  you,  Tom?"  and  the 
bric-a-brac  went  around. 

The  Doctor  came  in  presently,  and  once  more  the 
flip-flap  of  paste-board  went  on. 

At  last  Kelso  stretched  himself  with  a  yawn,  after 
a  loss,  when  he  had  confidently  expected  to  win,  and 
said : 

"Roys,  let  's  make  this  a  progressive  game.  I  'm 
all  tired  out.  We  Ml  let  the  bank  just  stand  as  it  is, 
with  debts  and  credits  recorded,  and  resume  again  to- 
morrow night  where  we  left  off." 

This  was  agreed  to,  in  spite  of  the  unkind  suspicion 
that  Tom  failed  to  have  the  necessary  amount  to  cash 
up  with,  and  he  went  out  into  the  darkness. 

"  Did  you  ever  notice  anything  peculiar  about 
Tom  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor. 

"Yes;  I  have,"  replied  the  Colonel,  "and  I  never 
could  determine  just  what  it  was.  He  has  got  an  open, 
pleasant  face,  but  there  is  something  lacking  in  it ;  and 
I  Ye  watched  him  many  a  time,  trying  to  think  out 
what  that  something:  is." 


INTERNECINE    COMPARISON.  113 

"Why,  man  alive,"  resumed  the  Doctor,  "he  ain't 
got  an  eyebrow  to  his  name.  Bald-faced  above  the 
bridge  of  his  nose  as  a  soap-bubble.  Funny  you  never 
tumbled  to  it,  Colonel." 

With  this,  the  two  old  war-horses  gathered  them- 
selves together  and  sought  their  own  quarters. 

As  the  lantern  was  put  out,  and  I  crawled  into  my 
bunk,  I  wondered  whether  I,  myself,  had  any  uncouth 
characteristic  which  might  cause  comment  in  a  tempo- 
rary absence;  and  just  as  I  was  losing  myself  in  a  dream 
of  home,  I  heard  my  sentinel  murmur  in  an  undertone 
to  his  comrade  on  the  next  beat : 

"  Don't  shuffle  so  on  the  turn,  podner !  Ole  Torch- 
whisker  Jim  's  tryin'  t'  sleep  off  his  beauty  !  " 

James  S.  Goodwin. 


A    DRAWN    BATTLE. 


A   DRAWN   BATTLE. 


THOUGHT  I  did  a  very  clever  thing  when  I 
invited  Miss  Hawkins,  Mr.  Dash  and  a  few 
other  friends  to  take  a  sail  in  my  yacht. 
I  say  "  my "  yacht,  because  I  was 
entitled  to  her  for  that  day,  because 
of  my  owning  a  third  of  her;  and  I 
do  not  give  the  names  of  the  other 
friends,  because  they  were  only  meant 
to  fill  in  the  background.  Still,  I  will 
mention  one  gentleman  of  the  super- 
numeraries. Mr.  Vincent  was  one  of  the  party,  and  he 
was  a  very  welcome  addition  to  the  number.  Every- 
body liked  Vincent.  He  was  the  sort  of  man  who  gave 
tone  to  any  set  of  people.  It  is  difficult  to  say  exactly 
why,  for  really  he  had  no  "points."  He  was  quiet, 
rather  dignified,  and  of  a  good  figure  —  the  sort  of  figure 
which  enables  one  to  wear  ready-made  clothes  without 
explaining  why  one  prefers  them.  I  have  nothing  to 
say  against  Vincent,  even  now. 

But  Dash  was  different.      He  was  really  clever  and 
knowing.      But  he  had  his  limitations.      Yachting  was 


MAVERICKS. 


one  of  them.     He  did  n't  know  a  sharpie  from  a  lugger, 
and  that 's  the  reason  I  gave  the  yachting  party. 

You  see,  Dash  had  confided  to  me  that  he  thought 
Miss  Hawkins  was  a  "stunner."  That  is  the  way  he 
put  it.  He  did  n't  confide  in  me  because  I  was  his 
particular  confidant  and  crony,  but  only  because  I  hap- 
pened to  be  with  him  when  his  intellect,  so  to  speak, 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  a  "stunner." 

I  did  not  disagree  with  him.  In  fact,  I  thought 
then,  as  I  think  now,  that  Miss  Hawkins  threw  into  a 
coolirrg  shade  any  young  woman  of  her  time.  For  that 
reason,  I  got  up  the  yachting  party. 

Miss  Hawkins  accepted  with  pleasure:   and  when  I 
told  Dash  that  she  was  coming,  he  said  he  would 
accept  with  pleasure,   too.      Now,  that  was  not 
true.    Dash  hated  the  salt  water,  and  only  went 
because  he  knew  he  would  be  green  with  jeal- 
ousy if  he  should  stay  at  home. 

It  was  a  charming  day  for  a  sail  —  the 
water  was    gently  rippling  against  the  side   of 
the  boat  when   we   started,  but  there  were  tiny 
white   caps   showing    just  beyond  the  headlands  which 
flanked  the  harbor. 

Miss  Hawkins  sat  upon  a  canvas  chair  on  deck,  and 
Dash  and  I  were  beside  her,  engaged  in  a  sprightly 
small-talk  competition.  Poor  victim  !  By  easy  stages 
I  led  him  on  until  he  was  fairly  launched  in  wild  career. 
"Yes,  Miss  Hawkins,"  said  he;  "there  is,  as  you 
say,  a  certain  wild  sense  of  exhilaration  in  sailing  upon 
the  free  blue  sea." 


A   DRA\VN  BATTLE.  119 

"  I  said,"  she  answered  with  a  smile,  "that  I  had 
always  heard  so.  But  I  have  had  but  little  experience 
in  sailing.  I  feel  very  grateful  to  Mr.  Seaborn  for  an 
opportunity  of  enjoying  this  delicious  breeze  and  bright 
sunshine." 

I  sighed  a  gentle  acknowledgment  and  bowed. 

"But,  after  all,"  Dash  broke  in,  hastily;  "one 
finds  the  same  pleasure  in  driving." 

"Oh,  do  you   think  so?"  answered  Miss  Hawkins. 

"Well,  perhaps  —  there  may  be  certain  features  of 
sailing  which  one  might  prefer,"  he  replied,  weakly 
enough. 

Just  then  we  passed  the  lee  of  one  of  the  headlands, 
and  the  yacht  began  to  jump.  Everything  worked  to  a 
charm.  The  boat  would  lift  her  forefoot  gracefully 
against  the  oncoming  wave,  the  wave  would  slide  under 
the  keel,  and  the  boat  would  come  down  with  a  thump. 
And  at  every  thump  Dash  would  wilt.  I  said  very  little, 
and  kept  well  in  the  background,  so  that  he  was  com- 
pelled to  devote  himself  to  Miss  Hawkins.  Vincent  was 
devoting  his  efforts  to  entertaining  Miss  Hawkins's  aunt, 
a  most  agreeable  chaperon.  That  was  'always  the  way 
with  Vincent  —  he  could  be  depended  upon. 

Soon  Dash  began  to  weaken ;  he  grew  pale,  and 
his  conversation  lost  all  vivacity.  Full  of  solicitude  I 
hovered  about  him.  I  suggested  that  he  would  feel  bet- 
ter if  he  should  go  forward  and  lie  down. 

Of  course,  he  would  n't,  and  his  conversation  soon 
became  perfectly  inane.  Being  at  my  best  on  a  yacht, 
he  was  soon  nowhere,  and  I  had  the  field  all  to  myself. 


120  MA  VERICKS. 

I  named  the  interesting  points  along  shore;  explained 
that  marvelous  invention,  the  mariner's  compass ;  showed 
how  the  boat  ran  against  the  wind,  or  came  about ; 
taught  Miss  Hawkins  to  steer;  gave  peremptory  orders 
to  the  skipper  and  crew;  superintended  the  dainty  lunch- 
eon on  deck,  and  sympathized  properly  with  poor  Dash, 
who  had  long  since  gone  below. 

That  settled  Dash.  When  we  rounded  to  at  the 
moorings,  I  think  Dash  may  be  said  to  have  been  out 
of  it.  He  went  at  once  to  his  rooms,  a  pale,  ghastly 
and  utterly  uninteresting  iand-lubber,  while  Vincent  and 
I  escorted  home  the  Miss  Hawkins  contingent. 

After  the  ladies  had  gone  in,  Vincent  turned  to  me 
and  said  significantly: 

"  Seaborn,  did  you  know  that  Dash  was  so  poor  a 
sailor  ?  " 

"Well,"  I  said,  lightly;  -'he  said  he  would  be  de- 
lighted to  come  —  but  I  think  he  made  a  mistake." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  in  his  solemn  way;  "Miss 
Hawkins  asked  me  to  tell  '  poor  Mr.  Dash  '  how  sorry 
she  was  for  him." 

But  Dash  did  n't  know  when  he  was  whipped.  So 
he  got  up  a  coaching  party.  That  was  ingenious,  too; 
for  he  did  n't  say  anything  about  it  beforehand,  and  I 
supposed  it  was  only  an  ordinary  picnic  —  a  luncheon  in 
the  woods.  Then  he  arranged  things  so  as  to  have  Miss 
Hawkins  and  myself  seated  with  him  on  the  front  seat, 
while,  as  was  inevitable,  Vincent  and  the  aunt  were 
behind  us.  I  did  n't  suspect  anything  until  we  had 
gone  a  few  miles  into  the  country,  and  then  he  asked 


A   DRAWN  BATTLE.  121 

me  to  take  the  reins  for  a  few  moments,  while  he  went 
to  help  the  footman  fasten  one  of  the  hampers.  No 
sooner  had  he  reached  the  back  of  the  tally-ho,  than  he 
called  out :  . 

"All  right,  Seaborn,  go  ahead.     There  is  none  too 
much  time.      I  can  fix  this  while  we  drive  along !  " 


Then  was  my  time  to  rise,  and  say  frankly  and 
simply: 

"  But,  Mr.  Dash,  I  never  drove  anything  but  an 
old  family  hack.  I  shall  have  to  decline." 

Perhaps  you  would  have  done  so.  I  did  n't.  I  made 
a  ghastly  click,  and  that  awful  menagerie  in  leather 
sprang  into  life. 

I  think  I  shook  like  an  aspen.  My  head  whirled, 
and  the  road  looked  like  a  black  mist.  Miss  Hawkins 
said  something  quickly,  and  I  turned  to  hear  what  it 
was,  and  dropped  a  rein. 


122  MA  VERICKS. 

Vincent  must  have  climbed  down  into  Dash's  vacant 
seat  and  stopped  the  maddened  steeds,  I  am  sure ;  for 
the  next  thing  I  knew,  they  were  standing  all  in  a  bunch, 
head  to  head. 

Then  I  volunteered  to  fasten  the  hamper;  and 
long  after  that  hamper  was  fastened  like  a  safe-deposit 
security  box,  I  sat  there  on  that  back  seat  with  the  foot- 
men. 

Thus  did  /  take  a  back  seat. 

And,  to  be  perfectly  fair,  I  think  I  was  out  of  it  from 
that  moment. 


I  don't  blame  Miss  Hawkins,  for,  may  be,  neither 
Dash  nor  I  stood  a  ghost  of  a  show.  Hereafter,  if  I 
meet  another  "stunner,"  I  shall  devote  myself  to  a 
waiting-race  with  the  chaperon,  and  leave  it  to  others  to 
set  the  pace  and  make  the  running. 


We  dined  at  the  Vincents  not  long  ago,  and,  really, 
they  seemed  so  happy  that  I  think  Dash  and  I  both 
resolved  to  bury  the  hatchet.  At  all  events,  as  we  were 
coming  away,  Dash  said  : 

"After  all,  there  is  nothing  plcasanter  than  a  quiet 
dinner  with  a  pleasant  host  and  hostess.  I  think  these 
out-door  sports  and  entertainments  are  an  awful  bore, 
you  know  !  " 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  a  sail,"  I  answered,  "on  a 
quiet  day." 


A    DRAWN  BATTLE. 


123 


"Yes,  in  a  calm,"  said  he,  laughing;    "  but  a  good, 
brisk  drive  is  the  real  thing." 

"With  another  fellow  to  hold  the  ribbons,"  I   sug- 
gested. 

We  spent  the  evening  playing   double  dummy  at 
the  club. 

Tudor  Jenks. 


THE    MAGIC    CITY. 


"A    messenger  came  to  summon   Petrudio 
to  peel  potatos  for  dinner," 


THE   MAGIC   CITY. 
A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY. 

Chaps.  I  to  VIII. 

ORCIVAL  DE  TWIRLIGER  goes  to  Honduras  as  special 
agent  for  the  New  York  Suspender  Co.  (Limited.) 
Firm  speculates  in  new  style  of  buckles  and  goes  up. 
Orcival  starts  to  hoof  it  to  New  York.  Various  ad- 
ventures. Separated  from  companion  in  wilds  of  Mexico. 
Lost  on  the  desert.  Great  heavens!  it  is  sad  to  die 
thus.  What  does  he  see  ?  —  a  city !  Goes  for  it. 
Meets  venerable  man  with  long  beard. 

Chap.  IX. 

(NOTE. —  Story  now  begins.  Prior  portion  put  in 
to  make  the  book  sell  for  $1.50.) 

"  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  surprise,"  said  Petrudio, 
"  although  our  city  has  been  established  twenty  years. 
It  was  founded  by  Edward  Bellamy,  Sergius  Stepniak, 
Joaquin  Miller  and  Jules  Verne.  It  is  a  paradise  upon 
earth,  where  everything  is  in  common,  and  where  every- 
body works  and  is  happy.  We  have  no  laws,  because 
there  is  no  crime." 


"  Does  no  one  ever  break  loose  just  for  the  fun 
of  the  thing?"  inquired  De  Twirliger. 

"  Never,"  replied  Petrudio,  with  a  patronizing 
smile. 

"Suppose  they  did?"  persisted  De  Twirliger. 

"The  supposition  is  inadmissible,"  returned  the 
patriarch,  sternly;  "all  people  who  live  in  the  Magic 
City  have  divested  themselves  of  love,  hate,  envy,  am- 
bition or  desires  of  any  kind." 

"  Something  like  a  wooden  image,"  suggested  De 
Twirliger,  winking  at  a  young  girl  who  floated  past  in 
an  aluminium  balloon. 

"How  are  the  soft  snaps  in  the  working  line  dis- 
tributed ?  " 

"All  take  their  turns;  there  is  no  jealousy.  In 
our  community,  work  is  a  pleasure." 

At  this  moment  a  messenger  came  to  summon 
Petrudio  to  peel  potatos  for  dinner. 


THE  MAGIC  CITY.  129 

Chaps.  X  to  XXVI. 

Aluminium  balloons  —  glass  railways  —  electric 
lights,  tubes,  chutes  and  conveyances  —  machines  to 
make  rain  —  free  concerts  and  theatrical  performances 
by  angelic  singers  and  supernaturally  gifted  actors  —  no 
doctors  or  lawyers  —  complicated  harangues  about  isms, 
asons,  ologies  and  flub-dub. 

Chap.  XXVII. 

"  Say !  "  exclaimed  Orcival  De  Twirliger,  with  a 
capacious  yawn;  "  this  is  turning  sour.  Honest  Injun, 
Petrudino,  would  n't  you  like  to  be  a  man  and  own 
yourself  for  a  month  or  two?  " 

"  I  have  occasionally  thought,"  said  Petrudio,  stop- 
ping up  a  near-by  speaking  tube  with  the  tail  of  his 
toga,  "  that  this  model  city  racket  is  being  carried  too 
far.  A  lot  of  old  seeds  with  chin  whiskers  and  the 
virility  of  a  turnip  might  meander  through  life  in  this 
community,  but  a  man  with  blood  in  his  veins  has  no 
business  to  turn  himself  into  a  machine.  Now  I  am 
thirty-two  —  " 

"  I  took  you  to  be  one  hundred  and  sixteen,"  re- 
marked De  Twirliger ;  "  your  beard  and  gown  —  " 

"  That  is  the  model  city  regulation ;  they  all  do  it. 
It  gives  a  patriarchal  and  gliding  air  to  the  people.  To 
return :  —  thirty-two,  with  the  prospect  of  gliding  and 
floating  around  for  a  half  century,  without  a  cent  in  my 
pockets,  putting  up  stove-pipes  one  day  and  painting 
pictures  the  next,  living  a  life  of  solid,  unadulterated 
virtue,  and  not  even  allowed  to  choose  an  affinity." 


MA  VER1CKS. 


"  I  thought  you  all  had  affinities?  " 
"  So  we  have.      There  is  an  annual  drawing  at  the 
City  Hall   for   affinities,   and  the   one   I   drew  last  year 
would  curdle  the  milk  of  human  kindness." 
"The  beautiful  Etudia  and  I,"  said 
DeTwirliger,  calmly,  "are  about 
to  elope  if  we  can  steal  the 
grand      patriarch's     balloon. 
If  you  can    hook  on  to  an 
affinity  of  your  own  choos- 
ing, we  may  make  room 
for  you  as  ballast." 

"  There    is    a   stout 
German  girl  who   is    de- 
tailed to  dust  the  palace 
this  month,"  said  Petru- 
dio,      musingly.        "  She 
squeezed    my   hand   at    the 
last    mush -and -milk    sociable, 

and  made  some  earthly  remark  about  giving  the  whole 
boiling  fora  glass  of  beer.  If  you  '11  give  me  twenty-four 
hours,  I  '11  see  if  I  can  make  a  vacancy  in  the  colony." 

Chaps.  XXVIII,  XXIX  and  XXX. 
Various  monkeyings  around  to  keep  the  reader  in 
suspense. 

Chaps.  XXXI  and  XXXII. 

The  flight  of  l)e  Twirliger  and  the  beautiful  Etudia, 
accompanied  by  Petrudio  (with  his  whiskers  cut  off)  and 
Loreeta.  Crossing  the  desert.  Water  gives  out  —  got 


THE  MAGIC  CITY.  131 

to  give  out  —  everybody  forgives  everybody  else,  and  all 
about  to  die  in  holy  calm,  when  the  balloon  falls  into 
Lake  Pontchartrain. 


Chap. 

"  Well,"  said  Orcival,  as  the  quartet  sat  at  table  in 
the  dining-room  of  the  St.  Charles,  "it  is  bad  form  to 
notice  one's  eating,  but  from  the  way  you  destroyed  that 
steak,  Etudia,  I  should  judge  that  roses  and  dew  are  not. 
the  only  fare  worth  living  for." 

Etudia  showed  her  pearly  teeth,  but  was  too  happy 
to  make  reply.  Loreeta,  meanwhile,  had  ordered  her 
third  piece  of  pie. 

Petrudio,  who  had  been 
silent  up  to  this  point,  now 
said,  gravely : 

"Orcival,  let  us 
lift  in  some  pale  brandy 
to  settle  this  repast, 
and  then  for  a  good 
old  smoke." 

Half  an    hour    later 
they  were   playing  billiards. 

"After  all,"  said  Petru- 
dio, after  a  run  of  ten,  "life  is 
only  enjoyable  when  you  have 

to  hustle  and  know  that  you  can  keep  what  you  can 
grab.  Without  rivalry,  there  can  be  no  material  pro- 
gress. A  man  of  spirit  had  better  peddle  shoestrings 


132  v          MAVERICKS. 

than  link  himself  with  cranks  who  surrender  their  brains 
to  an  idea  that  won't  work." 

"And  how  fortunate,"  said  Orcival,  "that  I  relieved 
the  colony  of  several  bags  of  dross.  It  was  only  in  their 
way,  while  we  can  put  it  where  it  will  do  the  most 
good." 

Sidney. 


MR.   WILKENNING'S   HOBBY. 


MR.    WILKENNING'S    HOBBY. 


"  /\A 
*•  "  * 


ARY  '    *  >m  §°'nS  to  Qu^  business." 

Miss  Wilkenning,  sewing  away  with  nimble 
fingers  and  engrossed  in  her  own  thoughts,  had  not 
noticed  that  her  brother  had  ceased  reading;  and  this 
abrupt  remark  startled  her.  She  looked  up 
quickly  and  met  his  calm  gaze. 

"Quit  business!  "  she  exclaim- 
ed. "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Mr.  Wilkenning  laid  his  paper 
on  the  table,  put  his  hands  in  his 
trousers'  pockets  and  crossed  his 
legs,  while  his  sister  waited. 

"  I  mean,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
adjusted  himself  satisfactorily,  "that  I  'm 
going  to   turn   over   the   whole  thing  to   Wharton   and 
retire;    go  out;   quit." 

"  But,  Alfred  !    you  're  only  forty-six  years  old  !  " 

"  I  've  got  money  enough." 

"But  you  're  an  active,  energetic  man.  What  will 
you  do  with  yourself  when  you  have  no  business  to  at- 
tend to?" 


136  MA  VERICKS. 

Mr.  Wilkenning  elevated  his  eyebrows.  "  I  '11  en- 
joy myself,"  he  said  in  a  contemplative  tone.  "  I  '11  let 
my  inclinations  lead  me  about  from  one  thing  to  another 
for  a  while,  and  perhaps — by  and  by  —  I  '11  take  a  little 
ride  on  my  hobby." 

Miss  Wilkenning  slowly  gathered  up  the  work  in 
her  lap  and  placed  it  on  the  table,  while  her  brother 
lowered  his  eyes  from  the  ceiling  and  looked  at  her  with 
a  half  furtive  expression  on  his  good-humored  face. 

"Alfred,"  said  Miss  Wilkenning  solemnly,  folding 
her  hands  in  her  lap;  "you  are  going  to  give  up  busi- 
ness on  purpose  to  go  into  the  country  and  buy  a  farm. 
You  have  had  that  on  your  mind  for  two  years  —  ever 
since  you  gave  Mr.  Wharton  a  half  interest  in  the  busi- 
ness. 

"  You  look  back  to  the  days  of  your  boyhood,  and 
you  imagine  that  you  could  again  be  as  happy  and  free 
as  you  were  then.  You  don't  consider  that  the  con- 
ditions have  changed ;  that  you  have  changed.  You  will 
relinquish  all  the  comforts,  all  the  luxuries  you  have 
been  accustomed  to  here,  all  the  friends  whose  society  is 
a  pleasure,  an  incentive  to  you ;  you  will  go  away  from 
the  city  and  rust  out  in  some  isolated  country  place, 
among  narrow,  plodding  people  whom  you  can  not 
sympathize  with  or  care  for. 

"  It  is  folly. 

"  Why  won't  you  put  the  idea  out  of  your  head 
and  be  contented  where  you  are  certain  to  be  happiest  ?  " 

Mr.  Wilkenning  arose  and  walked  two  or  three  times 
across  the  room.  Then  he  stopped  in  front  of  his  sister. 


MR.     WILKENNING'S    HOBBY.  lyj 

"Mary,"  said  he;  "the  love  of  the  country  was 
born  in  me.  I  have  lost  sight  of  that  fact  while  I  slaved 
at  business ;  but  now,  when  I  am  able  to  free  myself,  a 
longing  for  the  old  life  comes  back  to  me  with  a  force 
you  can't  understand. 

"  I  've  trotted  around  on  slabs  of  stone  for  as  many 
years  as  I  care  to.  1  'd  give  ten  dollars  this  minute  if  I 
just  could  take  off  my  varnished  boots  and  silk  stockings 
and  plant  my  bare  feet  on  the  damp,  cold  turf. 

"  I  'd  give  five  years  of  my  life  in  this  overcrowded, 
ill-smelling  city  of  steaming  sewer-pipes  for  one  year  of 
blessed  stillness  in  a  place  where  the  sun  shines  on  the 
earth  and  not  on  the  tin  roofs  of  office-buildings  and 
tenement  houses." 

Mr.  Wilkenning  took  another  turn  around  the  room 
and  stopped,  facing  his  sister  again. 

"Every  chestnut-tree  in  the  pasture  lot" 
—  he  went  on — "every  apple-tree  in  the  or- 
chard —  every  old  zig-zag  fence  on  that  farm 
is  everlastingly  fixed  in  my  memory ;   and  they 
seem  to  be  waiting  for  me  to  come  back." 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  then  added: 

"But  you  don't  want  to  go,  Mary." 

Miss  Wilkenning  took  her  work  off  the  -table 
and  began  to  sew  again. 

"  I  am  making  some  warm  clothes  for  one  of  my 
children,"  she  said;  "you  know  I  have  forty-seven 
of  them.  What  would  they  do  if  I  should  go  away  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes !  your  mission.  You  have  a  hobby,  too. 
I  had  forgotten  that." 


/jc?  MA  VERICKS. 

Miss  Wilkenning  looked  earnestly  into  her  brother's 
face. 

"Alfred,"  she  said;  "you  are  tired  of  your  home 
life.  You  are  tired  of  seeing  nothing  but  this  old  maid's 
face  morning  and  evening,  year  after  year.  You  don't 
know  it,  but  that  is  the  trouble.  If  you  were  married  and 
had  a  family  around  you,  you  would  be  happy  and  —  " 

"  Stop  ! " 

Miss  Wilkenning  would  have  stopped  about  here, 
anyhow ;  for  her  voice  and  lips  were  tremulous.  Her 
brother  came  around  to  the  back  of  her  chair. 

"  Let 's  see  that  old  maid's  face,"  he  said;  and  he 
took  it  between  his  hands. 

"  You  are  the  one  that  ought  to  have  a  husband 
and  a  house  full  of  children  to  love  and  care  for,"  he 
said;  "you  are  wasting  your  life  on  a  cranky  old  bache- 
lor brother.  It  's  a  shame  —  a  downright  shame  !  But 
there!  "  —he  kissed  her — "I  could  n't  get  along  with- 
out you  ;  no ;  I  could  not,  possibly.  I  have  not  thought 
of  such  a  thing  as  a  wife,  Mary,  in  twenty-five  years.  I 
don't  want  a  wife.  I  would  n't  have  one  around.  Now, 
let  's  stop  our  nonsense  about  getting  married,  and  talk 
of  something  that  is  among  the  possibilities. 

"And  here  is  one  theme  —  your  unreasoning  pre- 
judice against  the  country.  I  'm  going  to  remove  that 
or  else  I  'in  going  to  give  up  to  it.  I  have  a  scheme 
which  will  result  in  one  of  those  two  things.  Want  to 
hear  it?" 

Miss  Wilkenning  bowed  her  head. 

<<Well,  I  'm  going  up  to  Ryefields,  Massachusetts, 


MR.    WILKENNING'S    HOBBY.  ijg 

among  the  farmers  —  those  plodding  farmers  who  never 
leave  their  homes  for  three  days  at  a  time ;  and  I  'm 
going  to  hunt  up  the  brightest,  most  progressive  one  of 
them  all ;  and  I  'm  going  to  ask  him  to  come  here  and 
stay  two  weeks — do  you  follow  me?  —  to  stay  two  weeks 
as  our  guest. 

"  If  he  turns  out  to  be  a  wide-awake,  agreeable, 
well-bred  man,  one  whose  intellectual  attainments  are  up 
to  your  standard,  then  you  've  got  to  acknowledge  that 
that  kind  of  people  can  grow  in  the  country,  and  that  / 
might  live  in  the  country  without  getting  rusty.  If  I 
can't  find  such  a  man,  then  we  '11  stay  in  New  York. 

"How  's  that? 

"  If  I  've  taken  your  breath  away,  I  '11  wait  till  you 
get  it  back.  Take  your  time." 

Mr.  Wilkenning  sat  down  and  pretended  to  read  the 
paper.  When  he  sought  his  sister's  face  again,  she  was 
gazing  at  him  with  an  amused  smile. 

"Well?"  said  he. 

"I'll  accept  that  test,"  she  sard;  "but  I  wonder 
if  you  have  any  particular  person  in  mind.  Do  you  think 
of  any  one  of  your  country  acquaintances  who  would  be 
likely  to  convert  me  ?  " 

"I  've  thought  of  several  young  fellows  whom  I 
knew  years  ago,  Mary.  There  's  that  third  or  fourth 
cousin  of  ours,  Tom  Beverly,  for  one.  He  's  a  bright  sort 
of  fellow,  eh  ?  " 

"  He  was  —  fifteen  years  ago." 

"  I  wonder  how  he  'd  do  for  a  test  case  !  " 

"You  can  call  on  him  and  see." 


140  MA  VERICKS. 

"He  's  living  there  with  his  sister,  Grace,  is  n't  he?" 

"  Yes;    I  wonder  why  neither  of  them  married?" 

"  Had  too  much  sense.  Well,  they  ought  to  be  a 
typical  country  pair  by  this  time ;  but  I  '11  wager  that 
Tom  Beverly  is  as  bright  as  a  new  dollar.  I  '11  take  those 
two  for  my  subjects.  I  '11  ask  'em  both  to  come  down  to 
see  us.  That 's  exactly  what  I  '11  do ;  and  I  '11  go  up 
there  to-morrow  morning." 

"You  're  not  wasting  any  time,  Alfred.  How  long 
shall  you  stay  ?  " 

"Can't  tell.  These  plodding  people  are  hard  to 
move,  you  know ;  they  may  need  a  deal  of  coaxing. 
You  must  n't  be  alarmed  if  I  'm  gone  two  or  three  days." 

"All  right,"  said  Miss  Wilkenning. 

The  conversation  ceased,  and  Mr.  Wilkenning  be- 
gan once  more  to  pace  the  floor.  His  face  was  radiant, 
and  his  tread  was  quick  and  elastic.  The  contemplation 
of  a  visit  to  Ryefields  filled  him  with  joy. 


And  Mr.  Wilkenning  went  to  Ryefields  on  the  fol- 
lowing day.  He  announced  his  arrival  there  in  a  letter 
to  his  sister,  from  which  the  following  is  an  extract : 

*  *  *  But  is  n't  it  a  very  singular  coincidence 
that  Tom  Beverly  should  have  left  here  for  New  York 
at  the  very  time  I  was  starting'  for  Ryefields.  Grace 
says  he  has  been  talking  of  visiting  New  York  for  a 
year  or  two;  and  finally,  he  made  a  sudden  resolve  to 
go,  and  posted  himself  off.  He  intended  to  go  straight 
to  our  house;  and  of  course  you  kept  him  there.  How 


.I/A'.     ll'/f.K'E.V.Vf.VG'S   HOBBY.  /^/ 

do  you  like  him  ?  I  shall  not  tell  you  what  sort  of  a 
woman  Grace  is,  though ;  you  must  -wait  until  you 
see  her.  *  *  *  They  have  a  magnificent  farm,  and 
I  'in  not  going  to  leave  it  for  a  day  or  two,  now  that 
I  've  got  up  here.  Tell  Tom  that,  and  keep  him  until 
I  come  home.  Give  him  this  letter  of  introduction  to 
Wharton,  and  tell  him  to  make  himself  at  home  at  the 
office  as  well  as  at  the  house.  When  I  get  back,  I '// 
take  him  around  to  see  the  sights.  Grace  says  he  has 
had  a  great  longing  to  visit  the  city  —  thinks  he  V  like 
to  live  there;  and  I  believe  it  worries  her  a  little.  Don't . 
let  him  get  into  mischief. 

The  answer  to  this  letter  was  in  part  as  follows : 

nut  don't  stay  too  long.  If  you.  won't 
tell  me  about  Grace,  I  think  I  'II  not  take  the  trouble 
to  describe  Tom  for  you.  *  *  *  *  /  should  say 
he  did  like  the  city.  He  's  a  regular  boy.  You  'II 
have  very  little  to  show  kirn,  unless  you  hurry  to  come 
home;  for  he  is  "taking  in  the  town"  pretty  thor- 
oughly. *  *  *  *  He  says  you  will  find  Dolly  a 
fine  animal  to  drive,  if  you  want  fire ;  but  you  must 
keep  a  close  eye  on  her.  Gray  Ned,  he  says,  is  a  good 
road  horse,  too,  but  more  moderate.  I  think  you  'd- 
better  use  the  gray  horse,  and  let  the  other  one  alone. 
Shall  you  be  home  soon  f 

It  was  two  or  three  days  after  this  was  written, 
when  Thomas  Beverly,  in  the  city,  got  a  letter  from  his 
sister. 


T42 


MA  VERICKS. 


He  says,  every  day,  he  's  going  home  to-morrow, 
she  wrote ;  but  he  does  n't  go.  He  is  driving  over  the 
country,  calling  on  all  the  people  he  ever  heard  of,  to 
get  points  on  farming,  he  says.  I  do  believe  he  was 
cut  out  for  a  farmer.  Yesterday,  Mr.  Hendricks  came 
down  from  Clearbrook  to  look  at  those  yearlings,  and 
Mr.  Wilkenning  took  him  in  hand  and  sold  him  seven 
of  them  and  the  sorrel  colt.  I  told  him  how  much  you 
expected  to  get,  and  he  did  better  by  about  seventy  dol- 
lars. Did  you  forget  your  appointment  with  Mr.  Hen- 
dricks? How  much  longer  are  you  going  to  stay  in 
New  York? 


Nearly  a  week  more  elapsed,  and  then  Mr.  Wilken- 
ning, at  Ryefields,  received  a  short  letter  from  his  sister, 
closing  with  these  words:  Alfred,  you  MUST  come  home. 

And  Mr.  Wilkenning  did  come  home.  He  reached 
New  York  very  early  in  the  morning,  arriving  at  the 


MR.    WILKENNING' S  HOBBY.  143 

house  before  his  sister  had  come  downstairs.  His  guest, 
however,  was  in  the  library,  with  morning  paper  spread 
out  before  him. 

"Say,  you  're  a  great  fellow!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bev- 
erly, when  the  two  had  greeted  each  other  with  genuine 
warmth;  "why  did  n't  you  stay  up  there?  I  wanted  to 
have  a  quail-hunt  with  you." 

"The  deuce  you  did!"  said  Mr.  Wilkenning. 
"Why  did  n't  you  say  so?  I  'd  have  staid.  But  I  've 
come  home  to  entertain  you  — partly  —  and  partly  be- 
cause Mary  wrote  me  that  I  must  come." 

"  She  did  n't,  though  ?  "  said  Mr.  Beverly,  with  a 
peculiar  expression  of  countenance. 

"She  did,  though,"  said  Mr.  Wilkenning.  "What 
do  you  find  of  interest  in  the  paper  this  morning,  Tom  ?  " 

Mr.  Beverly  had  suddenly  buried  his  face  in  the 
newspaper. 

"  I  was  just  looking  up  a  little  advertisement  of 
mine,"  he  said;  "I  —  I  —  to  tell  the  truth,  Alf,  I  'm 
desperately  in  love  with  New  York,  and  I  've  offered  a 
—  a  desirable  country  place  in  exchange  for  — "  (he 
was  searching  for  the  advertisement)  "  for  a  city  house. 
Here  't  is.  Want  to  read  it  ?  " 

"Do  you  deal  with  brokers  or  owners?"  inquired 
Mr.  Wilkenning. 

"Owners;    positively." 

"  Then  I  '11  talk  with  you.  I  want  that  farm  of 
yours." 

"  The  deuce  you  do  !  " 
"  Will  you  swap  places  ?  " 


144 


MA  VER1CKS. 


"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Beverly,  throwing  his  paper  aside; 
"I  will." 

"Even?" 

"Yes;   even." 

"  It  's  a  go!  " 

They  grasped  hands. 

".My  sister  can't  bear  to  think  of  leaving  New 
York,  though,"  said  Mr.  Wilkenning,  with  a  troubled 
look. 

"  She  won't  have  to,"  said  Mr.  Beverly,  tightening 


his  grip;  "we've  settled  that.  It  's  tough  on  you,  old 
fellow,  and  she  —  she  's  cried  over  it  a  lot,  Alf,  I  know 
she  has,  and  I  believe  she  's  afraid  to  meet  you  ;  but 
don't  reproach  her,  old  man.  You  Ml  get  used  to  it. 
Brothers  and  sisters  can't  always — " 

He  hesitated. 

"Go  on,"  said  Mr.  Wilkenning,  whose  expression 
was  anything  but  reproachful;  "what  were  you  saying 
about  brothers  and  sisters?" 


MR.    WILKENNING' S  HOBBY.  145 

"  I  was  thinking  about  my  sister,"  said  Mr.  Bev- 
erly;  "  it  would  break  her  heart  to  leave  Ryefields." 

"Tom,"  cried  Mr.  Wilkenning,  "she  won't  have 
to!" 

"What!" 

"We  've  settled  that." 

"  Is  it  a  swap?  " 

"It  is." 

"Even?" 

"Even!" 

And  Miss  Wilkenning,  coming  softly  down  the  stairs 
at  this  momenfc  found  these  two  big  fellows  clasped  in 
each  other's  arms. 

C.    H.   Augur. 


THE  CASHIER  AND  THE  BURGLAR. 


1 


I: 


THE  CASHIER  AND  THE  BURGLAR. 

MR.  HORATIUS  LYMAN,  the  esteemed  cashier  of  the 
Merchants'  Bank  of  Diggsville,  was  a  light  sleeper; 
and  at  the  tread  of  cautious  footsteps,  he  carefully 
opened  his  eyes  to  see  on  the  wall  a  wavering  spot  of 
light,  an  illumination  which  he  instantly  reasoned  could 
only  proceed  from  a  dark  lantern. 

Glancing  as  carefully  sideways,  he  beheld,  bending 
over  his  top  drawer  and  bestowing  on  its  contents  a  calm 
and  impartial  investigation,  the  lantern's  burglarious 
owner. 

By  a  slight,  backward  pressure  of  the  head,  Mr. 
Lyman  assured  himself  that  his  watch,  his  rings,  his 
revolver,  and  certain  other  valuables,  were  still  under  his 
pillow,  where  he  had  placed  them ;  and,  being  himself 
of  a  calm  temperament,  he  made  no  further  movement, 
but  quietly  watching  his  felonious  visitor,  permitted  him- 
self the  novel  amusement  of  mapping  out  the  methods 
which  a  scientific  burglar  might  be  expected  to  follow. 

To  his  great  satisfaction,  he  succeeded  for  fully  ten 
minutes  in  anticipating  every  move  the  burgjar  made ; 
but  he  was  forced  to  confess  to  himself  that  it  was,  after 


150 


MA  VERICKS. 


all,  an  easy  task;  as  during  that  time  the  burglar  was 
wholly  occupied  with  the  bureau  drawer,  and  with  his, 
Mr.  Lyman's,  trousers. 

"Will  he,"  inquired  Mr.  Lyman  of  him- 
self;   "will  he  next   take  up  the  es- 
critoire, or  the  dime  savings  bank 
on  the  mantel-piece?     For  my 
own     part,     I     should    avoid 
dimes.       There  is  not  enough 
in    them    to    compensate    for 
their  rattle." 

These  last  words  Mr.  Ly- 
man so  far  forgot  himself  as 
to  murmur  half  aloud.      The 
burglar  instantly    turned   the 
dark  lantern    full   in  his   face, 
and  he  was   caught  with  his  eyes 
open.     Most   unexpected  was  the  re- 
sult.    The  burglar  gave  a  loud  exclamation  of  surprise, 
and  at  once  shut  off  the  light. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?"  asked  Mr.  Lyman, 
calmly  feeling  for  his  revolver. 

"Are  you  a  looking  glass?"  the  burglar  inquired, 
in  subdued  tones,  flashing  the  light  again  into  Mr. 
Lyman's  whiskers. 

"  Hardly,"  returned  the  cashier. 

"  Then,"  said  the  burglar,   ruefully,    "you  are  my 

twin  brother,    Horatius   Lyman,  and  I  Vc  simply  got  to 

return  the  swag  and  stand- a  moral  lecture.    Hang  it,  I  'm 

perfectly  sick  of  this  business.    It  rushes  a  man  to  death, 


THE  CASHIER  AND    THE  BURGLAR.  r5i 

and  jogs  his  conscience  till  a  toothache  seems  like  a 
holiday.  What  possessed  you  to  come  and  live  here, 
Horatius?" 

Mr.  Lyman  was  pleased  with  his  brother's  frank- 
ness of  speech. 

"Albert,"  he  said,  "I  never  should  have  recog- 
nized you,  for  you  were  behind  the  light.  Now,  if  you 
will  turn  it  on  yourself  for  a  minute  —  thank  you.  Ex- 
traordinary resemblance,  is  n't  it  —  even  to  the  length 
of  the  whiskers  !  But  Albert,  I  thought  you  were  keep- 
ing a  grocery  store  in  New  York.  How  do  you  happen 
to  be  here  to-night  ?  " 

"Children,"  said  Albert,  gloomily.  He  had  now 
seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"  But,  Albert,"  said  Horatius,  hastily,  "  you  are 
not  married  ?  " 

The  grocer-burglar  shook  his  head. 

"Never  a  marry,"  he  said;  "if  I  had  had  a  wife, 
she  might  have  kept  me  straight.  You  see,  I  tried  to  at- 
tract custom  by  baiting  for  the  shopping  kid  —  the  child 
sent  on  errands  —  and  for  children  out  shopping  with 
their  mothers.  I  left  all  the  boxes  of  raisins,  nuts,  figs, 
crackers  and  so  on,  open,  and  kept  a  stock  of  playthings, 
which  I  threw  in  with  purchases.  Then  I  would  say : 

"  'To  you,  Madam,  eight  cents  a  pound;  but  if  I 
were  selling  to  this  little  dear,  I  should  say  seven.' 

"  The  idea  worked  like  an  eyelet-hole  machine  at 
first,  and  I  developed  it.  It  was  a  great  success.  Every 
day  except  Monday  —  wash-day,  you  know  —  the  stor-e 
was  crowded.  It  was  n't  for  six  months,  and  money 


,52  MA  VERICKS. 

coming  in  all  the  time,  that  I  began  to  realize  what  I  'd 
done. 

"  My  dear  sir,  the  children  ate  up  my  profits  twice 
as  fast  as  I  made  them.  The  women  got  wind  of  my 
plan,  and  they  brought  their  whole  families  in  at  lunch- 
time  and  staid,  asking  prices  till  the  kids  were  gorged 
on  crackers  and  cheese  and  almonds  and  ginger-bread. 

"  As  for  cutting  prices  to  the  babies,  after  the  first 
two  weeks  I  did  n't  make  a  sale  to  a  single  adult.  Those 
who  had  no  children  borrowed  them  to  come  and  shop. 
A  wife  might  have  foreseen  this  —  but  I,  a  bachelor, 
had  ruined  myself.  What  was  I  to  do  except  to  take  to 
burglary,  nights,  and  to  try  to  keep  my  head  above 
water  that  way  ?  And  it  takes  all  the  running  round  I 
do  to  keep  even,  1  can  tell  you." 

"My  poor  brother,"  said  Horatius,  "how  unfor- 
tunate! And  is  this  really  true?" 

"  I  don't  sit  up  at  nights  to  tell  fairy  stories,"  said 
Albert,  gloomily.  "  I  spent  fifty  dollars  last  week  in 
crackers  alone." 

The  cashier  shook  his  head  sorrowfully. 

"  Never,"  he  said,  "was  a  man  waked  up  at  mid- 
night to  be  confronted  with  a  more  painful  situation. 
I  shall  not  lecture  you,  Albert.  Your  story  is  too  sad. 
IUit  was  there  no  way  except  burglary.'1" 

"  None  that  I  saw,"  Albert  said. 

"If  I  could  help  you,"  said  Horatius,  "I  should 
grudge  no  labor.  Nor  docs  the  problem  seem  to  me 
desperate.  Yet  I  can  not  help  thinking,"  he  mused, 
"  that  vou  should  have  started  a  drug-store," 


THE  CASHIER  AND    THE  BURGLAR.  rjj 

"I  believe,"  said  Albert,  moodily,  "that  I  will  let 
the  grocery  go,  and  take  to  burglary  out  and  out.  In 
that  way  I  should  at  least  make  up  my  sleep." 

"  Does  burglary  pay?  "  asked  Horatius. 

Albert  started  at  the  question. 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?"  he  said,  suspiciously. 
"  You  're  not  short  in  your  accounts,  are  you?  " 

"No,"  said  Horatius,  with  a  smile.  "  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  was  thinking  that  you  had  not  mastered  your 
profession,  or  you  would  not  be  wasting  your  time  over 
my  bureau  drawers  when  you  ought  to  be  clearing  out 
the  bank  downstairs." 

"Right  enough,"  said  the  moody  Albert.  "  I  dare 
say  I  'm  an  amateur.  By  the  way,  here  are  your  keys, 
which  I  have  not  yet  returned." 

"Again,"  Horatius  resumed,  taking  the  keys,  "you 
are  equally  short-sighted  as  a  grocer.  You  give  to  the 
children,  but  you  do  not  make  the  mothers  pay." 

"I  can  not  contradict  you  there,"  the  other  replied. 
"Why,  why  did  we  drift  apart?  Why  have  I  been  all 
these  years  without  your  counsel?" 

"Really,  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Horatius,  "that  you 
are  in  a  frame  of  mind  to  agree  to  almost  anything." 

"  I  am  that,"  said  Albert. 

"  Well,  then,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Horatius,  plac- 
ing his  hand  affectionately  on  the  other's  shoulder,  "  let 
me  make  you  an  extraordinary  proposition.  Let  me  sur- 
prise you  in  turn.  I  am  longing  for  a  change.  I  have 
grown  rusty  here.  I  need  excitement,  adventure.  A 
moment  ago,  as  I  watched  you  at  work,  I  could  not  but 


i54  MAVERICKS. 

reflect  upon  the  attractions  of  the  burglar's  calling  and 
wish  that  I  could  practice  it,  if  only  temporarily,  simply 
for  the  sake  of  the  sport  to  be  found  in  it. 

"Now,  will  you  not  agree  to  change  places  with 
me  for  a  few  weeks?  You  be  the  cashier  —  the  accounts 
are  simple  —  I  will  be  the  burglar.  I  will  engage  to  re- 
store your  grocery  to  a  sound  financial  condition  in,  say 
two  months;  and,  what  is  more,  I  will  adopt  such  a 
policy  as  will  rid  you  of  the  children  without  arousing 
the  suspicion  of  the  mothers.  And  the  period  will  be 
one  of  huge  enjoyment  and  mental  repose  for  me. 
What  do  you  say?" 

Albert  was  dumbfounded.  "  Do  you  really  propose 
to  put  a  confessed  burglar  at  a  cashier's  desk  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  We  agreed  that  you  were  only  an  amateur  burg- 
lar," Horatius  smilingly  answered. 

"  It  is  a  cinch  for  me.  But  for  you  to  take  up  burg- 
lary yourself—  "  said  Albert. 

"Oh,  as  you  please,"  Horatius  remarked.  "I  only 
make  the  suggestion  from  a  desire  for  adventure.  I  had 
intended  going  off  on  a  brief  vacation  to-morrow,"  he 
added,  reflectively;  "but  it  would  be  easy  for  you  to 
explain  that  I  had  changed  my  mind.  And,  of  course, 
I  shall  still  have  the  vacation." 

"  We  look  so  much  alike  that  no  one  would  ever 
suspect,"  said  Albert.  "I  assure  you  the  proposal  tempts 
me." 

"Close  with  it,"  said  Horatius,  "and  I  will  put 
on  my  trousers  immediately,  and  you  shall  go  to  bed. 
Breakfast  is  at  eight.  The  servant's  name  is  Mary  Jane." 


THE   CASHIER  AND    THE  BURGLAR.  i55 

"You  mean  that  you  will  put  on  my  trousers?" 
said  Albert,  laughingly.  "  Here  they  are  !  " 

With  a  perfectly  grave  face  Horatius  rose,  and  the 
exchange  of  garments  began.  In  a  very  few  moments 
the  burglar  stood  robed  in  the  immaculate  night  go*-n 


of  the  cashier,  and  the  cashier  had  possessed  himself  of 
the  burglar's  clothes,  dark  lantern  and  professional  im- 
plements. Then  the  two  men  clasped. hands. 

"I  assure  you  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you," 
said  Albert,  "  and  I  also  assure  you  I  will  not  betray 
your  trust.'1 


I56  MA  VE RICKS. 

"  I  have  no  fear  of  that,"  interposed  Horatius,  with 
a  slight  smile. 

"  Your  action  is  still  perfectly  inexplicable  to  me," 
Albert  went  on;  "but  let  us  pass  that  by.  I  only  hope 
you  will  enjoy  yourself.  Of  course,  it  is  understood  that 
if  you  are  —  hem  —  tripped  up,  I  continue  on  as  cashier." 

"Oh,  certainly!  " 

"Farewell,  then.  Before  you  go,  you  wouldn't  like 
to  tell  me  what  you  propose  doing  with  the  children, 
would  you  ?  " 

Horatius  smiled  once  more.  "  I  will  write  you  a 
postal  card,"  he  said;  "and  as  you  will  need  the  com- 
bination of  the  safe,  here  it  is."  He  took  his  watch 
from  under  his  pillow,  together  with  the  other  valuables 
he  kept  there  at  nights,  including  the  revolver;  from 
the  watch  case  he  drew  out  the  slip  of  paper  containing 
the  combination. 

"Good-by,  Albert,"  he  said. 


The  next  morning,  on  the  arrival  of  the  President, 
the  cashier  remarked:  "I  have  decided,  sir,  that  I  will 
not  take  that  vacation." 

"  Dear  me,  Mr.  Lyman,"  said  the  President,  in 
evident  surprise;  "you  did  not  speak  to  me  of  desiring 
one.  But  before  we  go  on  with  the  subject,  let  us  count 
the  cash  and  the  securities." 

Half  an  hour  later,  it  had  been  developed  that 
there  was  no  cash  and  that  the  securities  had  vanished, 


THE   CASHIER  AND    THE  BURGLAR. 


'57 


and  Albert  was  under  arrest.      Matters  were  now  clearer 
to  him.      That  afternoon  he  received  a  postal  card  con- 
taining the  following  words : 
"I  shall  sell  toy-pistols." 

Thomas  Wharton. 


A    TIMELY    HINT. 


"S/u-  stood  with  her  gracefully 
rounded  body  well  set  out  by  the 
polished  oaken  door." 


A     TIMELY     HINT. 

GEORGE  SCHUYLER  went  home  from  the  office  with 
two  problems  on  his  mind.  The  first  did  not  worry 
him  much,  for  it  was  only  a  small  matter  in  connection 
with  his  business.  He  was  a  young  architect  grappling 
with  his  first  large  order:  the  erection  of  a  thirteen- 
story  office  building. 

In  one  corner  of  the  lot  which  the  structure  was  to 
occupy  a  troublesome  bit  of  quicksand  had  been  dis- 
covered ;  but  he  knew  several  ways  of  overcoming  quick- 
sand, and  it  only  remained  for  him  to  choose  the  best 
of  them. 

The  other  question  was  more  important  and  difficult. 

What  sort  of  a  Christmas  present  should  he  give  to 
a  girl  who  had  always  had  everything  she  wanted  from 
her  cradle  up? 

He  could  estimate  exactly  the  tensile  strength  of  any 
species  of  building  material,  or  the  number  of  pounds 
weight  that  a  steel  truss  would  have  to  sustain ;  but  he 
knew  no  formula  that  would  help  him  in  such  a  case 
as  this. 

The  trouble  seemed  to  be  that  while  George  could 


I&2 


MA  VER1CKS. 


look  at  the  building  from  a  coldly  professional  stand- 
point, he  could  take  no  such  view  of  anything  which 
concerned  Rose's  happiness. 

He  was  not  in  love  with  the  gi- 
gantic mass  of  brick  and  iron ;  but 
he  was  violently,  and,  so  far  as  he 
knew,  hopelessly  in  love  with  her. 

He  was  willing  to  give  her  any 
thing    that   would    please    her,    but 
he  doubted  the  good  taste  of  a  too 
lavish    expenditure.      No ;     it    must 
be  some  elegant  trifle  that  she  had 
never  seen     before,  and  that  would 
move    her   irresistibly    to    "  Love    the 
Giver."     Something  that  would  give  her 
a  hint  of  the  condition  of  his  heart,  and  prepare  her  for 
the  words  he  hoped  to  utter,  some  day. 

Rose  Wyckoff  was  tlje  daughter  of  a  man  who 
valued  the  substantial  fruits  of  the  harvest  above  the 
pink  and  white  buds  of  the  Spring-time. 

Most  of  George's  prospects  were  still  in  the  bud. 
When  that  big  building  was  really  finished,  and  one-or 
two  more  that  he  hoped  to  get  the  orders  for  under  way, 
it  would  be  soon  enough  to  approach  the  old  gentleman. 
Although  George  had  a  very  clear  idea  of  what  Mr. 
Wyckoff  would  say  if  he  spoke  now,  he  could  gain  no 
idea  of  what  Rose  would  say ;  but  he  was  grimly  de- 
termined to  try  to  be  worthy  of  her.  He  left  the  rest 
to  fate,  and  contented  himself  with  drawing  the  designs 
for  magnificent  and  glittering  castles  in  Spain. 


A   TIMELY  HINT.  163 

When  George  went  to  call  on  Rose  that  evening, 
he  tried  to  be  as  cheery  and  animated  as  usual,  but  his 
nervous  and  absorbed  manner  must  have  given  her  some 
hint  of  the  heavy  load  of  anxiety  he  was  carrying;  for, 
as  he  stood  drawing  on  his  overcoat  in  the  hall,  after  tfte 
last  good-nights  had  been  said,  she  threw  herself  across 
the  outside  door,  and  barred  his  egress. 

As  she  stood  with  her  gracefully  rounded  body  well 
set  out  by  the  polished  oaken  door,  and  her  bright  face 
turned  up  to  him  with  an  expression  which  a  bolder 
man  might  have  almost  have  construed  as  an  invitation, 
George  felt  that  he  would  have  given  the  value  of  all 
the  buildings  that  he  ever  hoped  to  plan,  to  tell  her  how 
much  he  thought  of  her. 

He  was  somewhat  surprised  at  her  sudden  move- 
ment, or  as  much  so  as  he  ever  permitted  himself  to  be 
at  any  of  her  actions,  which  were  generally  unaccounta- 
ble from  a  masculine  standpoint.  He  only  thought  that 
if  she  were  going  to  appear  in  the  character  of  a  jailor,  he 
could  stand  a  life  sentence  with  considerable  equanimity. 

"Now,  before  you  go,  George,"  said  Rose,  with  her 
hand  still  on  the  knob,  "  I  want  to  ask  you  one  question. 
You  are  not  thinking  of  making  a  Christmas  present  to 
me  this  year,  are  you  ?  " 

George  owned  that  he  had  taken  the  matter  into 
serious  consideration. 

"  And  you  are  determined  to  persist  in  doing  so  in 
spite  of  my  disapproval  ?  "  she  asked  with  a  smile  that 
must  have  warned  him  that  her  disapproval  would  not 
be  of  a  serious  nature,  for  he  had  the  fine  presence  of 


164 


MA  VERICKS. 


mind  to  signify  firmly  that  he  was  not  only  adamant  in 
that  respect  but  even  iridium. 

"  Well,  I  like  a  determined  man,"  admitted  Rose, 
with  an  admiring  glance  at  his  suf- 
ficiently   assertive    chin;     "and    if 
you   are   determined,    I   want   to 
ask  you   to   allow  me   to  choose 
my  own  present." 

"With  pleasure  !  "  exclaimed 
Geofge. 

"  That  is  awfully  nice  of  you," 
said  Rose;  "but  be  sure  to  re- 
member not  to  get  anything  until 
you  hear  from  me.  I  will  let  you 
know  in  good  time.  Must  you 
"  really  go  now  ?  "  she  asked  ;  for 
George,  with  the  fortuitous  ab- 
sent-mindedness of  a  truly  bashful  man,  had  placed  his 
hand  over  hers  on  the  knob  of  the  door.  "  Good-night, 
then,"  she  said,  as  it  yielded  to  their  united  efforts,  and 
George  found  himself  standing  outside  on  the  steps.  He 
raised  his  hat  as  the  door  closed  gently,  as  if  it  were 
reluctant  to  shut  him  out  from  her  presence. 

That  night  George  drew  some  preliminary  sketches 
of  the  Spanish  chateau,  that  were  full  of  detail  as  to  the 
chatelaine,  but  hazy  as  to  the  stairways. 

After  that,  he  saw  Rose  quite  often  before  it  was 
time  for  the  green  wreaths  to  hang  in  the  parlor  win- 
dows ;  but  she  always  said  that  she  was  not  yet  ready  to 
tell  him  what  kind  of  a  present  she  wanted.  It  was  not 


A   TIMRI.Y  HINT.  165 

until  Christmas  Eve  that  he  received  a  little  note  hastily 
scribbled  on  the  back  of  a  visiting  card. 

Dear  George: 

I  find  that  I  have  neglected  to  give  you  t  the 
information  I  promised.  But  it  does  n't  matter.  We 
Jiave  gone  to  the  country  for  our  Winter  outing,  and 
Mother  wants  me  to  ask  you  to  join  us  for  as  many 
days  as  you  can  spare  from  business.  I  hope  you 
icill  come  and  give  me  a  chance  to  keep  my  promise. 

Sincerely  yours, 

Rose. 

George  accepted  this  invitation  with  alacrity.  He 
put  an  "  Out  of  Town  "  sign  on  his  office  door,  and  left 
the  big  building  to  its  own  devices. 


On  New  Year's  morning,  Rose  suggested  a  ride  to 
Sunset  Hill,  one  of  the  wildest  and  most  picturesque 
spots  in  the  neighborhood;  and,  after  the  horses  were 
brought  around  to  the  door,  they  set  out  together  through 


the  bright,  frosty  air.  They  rode  half-way  up  the  hill 
and  then  dismounted  and,  leaving  their  horses  tied  to  a 
bar-post,  followed  a  rough  foot-path  to  the  summit. 

Rose  stood  close  to  George,  looking  far  out  over 
the  fields  and  woods  and  groups  of  cottages,  and  gazing 
with  thoughtful  eyes  on  the  Sound,  where  the  snow- 
covered  ice-cakes  glistened  in  the  morning  sun. 

The  strong  wind  rushed  through  the  trees,  and 
pressed  her  closer  to  him;  he  steadied  her,  with  very 
unsteady  hands. 

"What  a  wreck  I  am!"  she  said,  as  she  put  back 
a  brown  tress  which  had  strayed  across  her  face.  "Oh, 
1  nearly  forgot  to  tell  you  about  my  Christinas.  Frankly, 
would  you  mind  giving  a  ring  to  me?" 


A   TIMELY  HINT.  167 

George's  face  fell,  as  he  returned;  "what  kind  of 
a  ring?  You  have  so  many  of  them;  and  I  wanted  to 
give  you  something  original." 

"A  ring  would  be  very  original,  from  you j"  and 
she  smiled  demurely;  "and  I  fancy  a  plain  turquoise 
would  be  the  proper  thing,  now.  Here,  you  may  meas- 
ure my  finger;  the  third,  please."  And  drawing  off  her 
glove,  she  slipped  a  warm,  little  left  hand  into  his. 

"  The  third  !  Why,  that  is  the  engagement  fin- 
ger !  "  exclaimed  George,  as  the  air  assumed  for  him 
the  balmy  mildness  of  an  Indian  Summer. 

"You  said  it  yourself,  George  Schuyler  !  "  she  cried, 
with  a  brave  attempt  to  be  saucy ;  but  her  voice  was 
timid  and  choked,  as  she  rested  her  delicate  head  lightly 
against  his  shaggy  coat;  and,  now,  you  can  never  tell 
any  one  I  proposed  to  you,  even  if — even  if  this  is  L  — 
Leap-year." 

Harry  Romaine. 


A    BRILLIANT    IDEA. 


"  Thomas  Montgomery  Archer 
stands  before  you." 


A     BRILLIANT     IDEA. 


I. 

JOYFUL  SMILE  lit  up  Tom  Archer's 
face  as  he   finished   the    story  he 
was  engaged  upon,   and  carefully 
signed  his    name  in  full  —  Thomas 
Montgomery  Archer. 

But  the  smile  was  followed  by 
a  look  of  despair,  as  he  gazed  at  the 
little  piles  of  MSS.    scattered  here  and 
there  about  the  table  —  for  each  little 
pile  was  a  story  or  a  poem  that  had  been 
finished  a   longer   or   shorter   time   and 
was  still  unpublished. 

Tom  was  an  author  by  profession, 
but  scarcely  by  practice ;  except  so  far 
as  merely  writing  stories  and  poems  went.  His  name 
was  but  little  known  to  the  world,  and  he  was  still 
novice  enough  to  experience  a  delightful  tremor  when 
he  saw  his  name  in  type.  Tom  was  a  martyr  —  or 
thought  he  was  —  and  had  lately  been  comparing  him- 
self with  the  poor  authors  of  Grubb  Street,  who  be- 
came famous  only  after  their  demise. 


IJ2 


MAVEKICKS. 


This  thought  came  to  him  as  he  leaned  back  and 
viewed  the  unfruitful  results  of  his  labor.  He  reflected 
that  the  matter  which  was  before  him  was  sufficient  to 
carry  his  name  down  to  posterity  in  case  of  his  sudden 
death,  say  by  starvation,  against  which  he  often  fought. 

He  had  come  to  the  city  with  the  firm  resolve  to 
win  a  name  for  himself.  He  had  won  several  names  in 
the  past  few  months,  for  he  had  contributed  to  a  society 
paper  a  story  each  week,  at  the  rate  of  seven  dollars  per 
story,  and  had  used  a  different  name  each  week  in  order 
to  impress  the  readers  of  that  periodical  with  the  va- 
riety of  its  writers. 

But  ere  long  the  paper  had  ceased  to  have  any 
readers,  and  ten  days  before  had  succumbed  to  the  in- 
evitable. So  Tom  had  to  struggle  as  best  he  could; 
but  it  was  a  struggle  against  fate.  He  was  hungry  even 
then,  and  he  had  but  thirteen  cents  in  his  pocket.  He 
counted  it  over  and  reflected  that  it  was  an  unlucky 
number.  Then  he  re-read  his  latest  production,  and 
again  smiled  approvingly;  after  which  Melancholy 
claimed  him  as  her  own. 

"  I  'm  afraid  to  steal,  ashamed  to  beg,"  he  para- 
phrased, rising  from  his  table  and  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room;  "and  as  to  work  —  /  inoii't.  It  's  a  shame 
that  Genius  can  not  exist  in  a  city  of  over  a  million 
inhabitants.  If  Genius  has  to  go  under,  why,  I  '11  go 
under  with  it.  I  will  not  degrade  the  habitation  of 
Genius  by  causing  such  habitation  to  indulge  in  manual 
or  clerical  work.  Jove,  I  wish  I  had  a  good  dinner  !  " 

The  father  of  the  gods  paid  no  heed  to  this  invoca- 


A    BRILLIANT  IDEA. 


tion,  and  if  Archer  had  expected  Ganymede  to  come 
through  the  window  with  a  large  plate  of  ambrosia,  he 
was  disappointed.  But  one  disappointment  more  or  less, 
did  not  matter  —  he  was  used  to  them. 

"I  have  it!  "  he  suddenly  shouted,  stopping  short 
in  his  walk.  No  messenger  of  the  gods  had  arrived  in 
any  tangible  shape,  not  even  a  thunderbolt  interrupted 
the  miserable  mortal.  "  Fame,  fame  !  "  he  continued, 
wildly;  "posthumous  fame  is  better  than  none  at  all. 
Genius  must  have  its  own  reward  —  aye  —  Genius  will 
conquer !  even  in  death  ! " 

He  sat  down  again  at  his 
table — his  pen  did  not  travel 
over  the  paper  with  its  usual 
speed ;  he  wrote  slowly  and 
thoughtfully.  Then  he  picked 
up  his  stories  and  poems,  and 
enclosed  them,  each  in  an  en- 
velope, with  a  short  note,  and 
directed  them  separately  to 
each  of  the  great  city  dailies. 
His  remaining  papers  he  gath- 
ered neatly  together  —  placed  a 
poem  entitled,  "Why? — A  La- 
merit,"  on  the  top  of  the  heap  and 
then  went  out,  closing  the  door  with  a  sigh. 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  and  Christmas  Eve. 

The  streets  were  covered  with  mud  and  crowded 
with  pedestrians  hastening  from  their  labor.  Archer 
pushed  through  them  as  best  he  could,  and  visited  each 


'74 


MA  V BRICKS. 


newspaper  office  in  turn,  leaving  an  envelope  ot  MS. 
with  the  small  boy  who  stood  guard  at  the  editorial 
sanctums  until  every  paper  had  been  supplied.  Then 
he  ate  a  supper  before  a  street  stand  at  a  cost  of  four 
cents,  and  turned  his  steps  toward  the  river. 
Through  the  brilliantly  lighted  streets 
he  was  borne  along  by  the  current  of 
humanity  until  he  reached  the  river- 
front, and  then  he  turned  up  the 
street  and  walked  along  the  shadow 
of  the  shipping  stores.  A  policeman 
watched  him  suspiciously  as  he  en- 
tered one  of  the  long  docks  which 
stretched  out  into  the  water,  and  fol- 
lowed him ;  but  Archer  had  already 
passed  into  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

II. 

The  editor  of  The  Echo,  the  largest  newspaper  of 
the  city,  came  to  his  post  at  eight  o'clock,  and  found 
the  MS.  and  note  of  poor  Tom  Archer  on  his  desk.  He 
glanced  over  it  carelessly,  and  then  threw  it  back  on  his 
desk,  busying  himself  with  other  matter. 

About  ten  o'clock  a  reporter  came  in. 

"Another  poor  genius  gone,"  he  remarked,  as  he 
laid  some  copy  on  the  desk  of  the  editor.  The  great 
man  glanced  over  the  item. 

"A  coat  was  found  by  Policeman  O'Connell,  on 
Pier  33  X  last  night.  It  is  supposed  that  the  owner 
committed  suicide,  as  the  policeman  had  seen  a  man 


A  BRILLIANT  IDEA.  ,75 

wandering  suspiciously  about  the  dock  earlier  in  the 
evening,  and  had  ordered  him  away.  The  following 
note  was  found  in  the  pocket : 

Dear  J.: 

What  is  the  icse  of  living?    Genius  is  not  appre- 
ciated,   and   I   am    hungry,    with    only    thirteen    cents 
to  satisfy  my  craving. 

Thomas  Montgomery  Archer. 

The  editor  repeated  the  name. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  he  remarked.      The  item  about  Tom 


/     \> 


fell  to  the  floor.     Reaching  for  the  MS.'  on  his  desk,  the 
editor  read  it  carefully. 

"  It  has  some  merit,  after  all,"  he  said,  as  he  fin- 
ished it;    "I   guess   I  'II   put   it   in  the  paper  with  the 


T?(>  MAl'/iK/CKS. 

notice  of  the  poor  chap's  death,  and  have  Jones  write 
an  editorial  on  it. 

'  Alas  !    for  the  rarity, 
Of  Christmas  Christian  charity,'  " 

he  added,  as  he  put  a  few  notes  in  blue  pencil  upon 
the  story  that  Tom  Archer  had  smilingly  finished  that 
afternoon. 

The  readers  of  the  Christmas  papers  found  in  each 
a  poem  or  story  by  the  unfortunate  author,  accompanied 
by  an  account  of  his  suicide  and  an  editorial  note  on  the 
struggles  of  Genius  in  the  great  metropolis. 

III. 

That  Christmas  afternoon  the  editor  of  The  Echo 
sat  in  his  home,  discussing  with  his  son  and  heir  of  five 
years  the  personality  of  Santa  Claus. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  a  servant  at  the  door;  "but 
there  's  a  man  downstairs  who  wants  to  see  you." 

"  P'haps  it  's  Santy,"  suggested  the  embryo  editor. 
The  real  editor  smiled  —  he  would  foster  the  belief  of 
liis  son  while  he  was  able. 

"  Perhap*  it  is,"  he  said;  "ask  the  gentleman  to 
step  in,  please."  The  servant  departed.  A  step  was 
heard  outside  the  door.  The  son  and  heir  looked  expect- 
ant and  disappointed;  for  a  poor  specimen  of  humanity, 
unshaven  and  cold,  entered. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  poor  specimen, 
in  better  tones  than  such  objects  are  in  the  habit  of 
using;  "I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you  at  your  home,  but  I 


A   BRILLIANT  IDEA.  777 

should  like  a  little  money  on  account.  Life  has  its 
demands,  you  know,"  he  added,  airily. 

"On  account!"  gasped  the  editor;  "on  account 
of  what  ?  " 

The  small  boy  crept  closer  to  his  father.  "P'haps 
it  's  Santy  in  disguise,  an'  he  wants  some  money  to  get 
me  more  pwesents,"  whispered  the  hopeful,  regardless 
of  the  morning's  gifts  that  littered  the  floor. 

"I  am  the  author  of  'A  Brilliant  Idea,'  published 
in  to-day's  Echo.  Tom  Archer  is  my  name,  now — " 

"What!"  cried  the  editor,  leaping  to  his  feet. 
"  Archer  jumped  off  of  a  dock  last  night.  Do  you  take 
me  for  a  fool  ?  " 

"  Really,  I  never  gave  it  much  thought,"  responded 
Archer,  haughtily;  "but  I  am  prepared  to  argue  the 
question  with  you  if  you  repeat  your  previous  assertion. 
I  can  assure  you  that  Archer  is  no  idiot,  however;  and 
to  prove  my  statement,  he  offers  to  write  you  up  the 
exclusive  account  of  the  results  of  'A  Brilliant  Idea.' 

"  <A  Voice  from  the  Dead,'  how  would  that  do  for 
a  head-line?  The  papers  to-day  are  full  of  my  praise 
—  just  think  of  the  '  beat '  you  will  have  on  them. 
Thomas  Montgomery  Archer  stands  before  you  .with  a 
wonderful  proposition.  After  writing  the  article  I  have 
indicated,  he  would  be  pleased  to  be  attached  to  the 
staff  of  The  Echo.  At  the  present  moment,  though," 
added  the  embodiment  of  Genius,  "he  seeks  the  staff 
of  life." 

The  editor  thought  a  moment.  "  You  would  be 
valuable  in  emergencies,"  he  said,  laughing;  "  I  '11  take 


//<?  MAVERICKS. 

your  offer.      Come  with  me  and  tell  me  your  trials  while 
you  eat." 

***** 

"  But  to  whom  did  you  address  your  note?  "  asked 
the  editor,  as  Archer  folded  his  napkin,  satisfied  and 
contented.  "You  say  that  you  have  no  friends." 

"To  Jove,"  said  Tom,  accepting  with  a  smile  the 
cigar  offered  him.  "  I  usually  invoke  the  old  gentle- 
man, but  this  is  the  first  time  he  ever  responded.  Possi- 
bly he  was  touched  by  my  addressing  him  as  '  Dear  J.'" 

Flavel  Scott  Mines. 


THE    MAN    WITH    THE     BLACK 
CRAPE    MASK. 


li  Burying  his  face  in   Jiis  hands, 
he  said:    'Give  me  the   mask  !  "  ' 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK 
CRAPE  MASK. 

I T  WAS  on  the  whitest  kind  of  a  white  Winter  morning 
*  that  Silas  Drummond  made  his  first  appearance  on 
the  main  thoroughfare  of  Scuttle  Hole.  He  was  a  tall, 
angular  man,  with  a  military  bearing,  whose  dignity 
only  served  to  draw  attention  to  his  most  conspicuous 
feature.  This  feature  consisted  of  a  jet-black  mask,  or 
false  face,  which  fitted  him  so  closely  and  perfectly  that 
at  a  short  distance  it  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a 
negro.  But  upon  meeting  him  face  to  face,  it  was 
plain  to  the  observer  that  he  wore  a  mask  of  crape. 
Although  he  attracted  the  attention  of  every  one,  he 
did  n't  seem  in  the  least  disconcerted  by  the  open- 
mouthed  wonder  that  he  caused. 

Children  would  watch  him  as  he  approached,  only 
to  fly,  as  though  pursued  by  an  evil  spirit,  before  he 
was  within  a  hundred  feet  of  them.  Women  driving 
along  the  road  would  watch  him  as  he  passed,  and 
seldom  failed  to  follow  him  with  their  eyes  until  he  had 
completely  vanished.  Although  the  black  crape  mask 
made  Silas  Drummond  the  most  talked-of  man  from 


one  end  of  Scuttle  Hole  to  the  other,  it  had  not  the 
effect  of  ruffling  the  serenity  of  his  spirit  in  the  least. 

He  lived  in  his  own  simple  way,  without  a  compan- 
ion, in  a  little  cabin,  unpainted,  and  almost  as  black  as 
his  crape  mask,  just  below  the  little  graveyard  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town. 

Many  were  the  speculations  of  the  gossips  of  Scuttle 
Hole  to  account  for  Mr.  Drummond  and  his  weird  ec- 
centricity. The--e  was  an  almost  uncanny  fascination 
about  it,  that  grew  day  by  day. 

Some  thought  that  the  black  crape  mask  could  be 
worn  only  by  a  criminal,  in  short,  a  fugitive  from  justice. 
Others  argued  more  charitably  that  it  might  have  me- 
dicinal properties,  such,  for  instance,  as  would  make  it 
a  blessing  to  any  neuralgic  sufferer.  At  any  rate,  the 
mystery  remained  unsolved,  no  one  caring  to  presume 


THE  MAX  \Viril   THE  BLACK  CKATE  MASK.      rft 

on  a  nodding  acquaintance  to  ask  Mr.  Drummond  for 
an  explanation  of  what  they  considered,  after  all,  was 
a  matter  that  concerned  none  so  much  as  himself. 

When  Air.  Drummond  walked  through  the  streets, 
he  held  his  head  in  the  air,  as  if  he  were  proud  of  his 
black  crape  mask.  It  was  noticed  by  all  who  came  in 
contact  with  him  that  the  rriask  fitted  every  feature  as 
though  it  had  been  made  from  a  mould  of  his  face. 
Upon  each  side  of  it  there  was  an  aperture  that  en- 
circled the  ear,  and  held  the  mask  firmly  in  place,  so 
that  there  was  no  chance  of  its  ever  falling,  and  expos- 
ing the  features  of  Mr.  Drummond  to  the  public  eye. 

Many  conjectures  were  made  relative  to  his  connec- 
tions, and  many  believed  firmly  that  the  man  with  tht 
black  crape  mask  was  not  of  sound  mind;  and  the 
longer  he  lingered  in  Scuttle  Hole,  the  greater  the  mys- 
tery became.  He  was  more  than  a  nine-day's  wonder, 
and  interest  in  him  never  abated.  He  was  never  seen 
in  church,  or,  in  fact,  at  any  other  public  gathering, 
and  no  one  had  more  than  the  slightest  acquaintance 
with  him.  But  at  every  store,  where  two  or  three  were 
gathered  together,  he  was  the  unvarying  topic  of  con- 
versation. Folk  wondered  how  long  he  had  been  wear- 
ing the  crape  mask,  and  how  long  he  would  continue 
to  wear  it,  and  if  he  kept  it  on  at  night  when  he  wejit 
to  bed. 

Finally, -the  people  of  Scuttle  Hole  began  to  feel 
that  the  presence  of  Silas  Drummond,  with  his  black 
crape  mask,  was  exerting  an  uncanny  influence  over  them 
that  it  was  impossible  to  shake  off;  and  a  deputation  of 


r8j  MA  VER1CKS. 

prominent  citizens  waited  upon  the  Rev.  Eliphalet  White 
to  ask  him  to  call  upon  Mr.  Drummond,  and  to  get  from 
him,  if  possible,  an  explanation  of  his  very  strange  be- 
havior. The  reverend  gentleman  was  not  over-pleased 
at  the  commission  he  was  called  upon  to  execute;  but 


in  response  to  a  demand  which  appeared  to  be  so 
general,  he  consented,  fully  believing  in  his  heart  that 
the  welfare  of  the  community  was  at  stake. 

He  started  for  Mr.  Drummond's  weather-beaten 
abode  near  the  lonely  graveyard  late  on  the  afternoon  of 
a  stormy  Winter  day.  It  was  snowing  quite  hard,  and 
the  wind  seemed  to  be  blowing  in  every  direction.  As 
the  Reverend  EliphaletWhite  stood  before  the  cedar- 
dotted  graveyard,  through  which  the  snow  was  whirling 
in  mad  eddies  that  seemed  to  his  excited'  imagination 
like  the  ghosts  of  those  worthies  buried  below  whirling 
in  a  wild  waltz  to  the  weird  fantastic  music  of  the  wind, 
he  did  not  feel  in  the  most  cheerful  frame  of  mind. 


THE  MAX  \VITH  THE  BLACK  CRATE  MASK.      185 

He  thrust  his  chin  as  far  down  between  the  points 
of  his  great-coat  collar  as  possible,  and,  looking  toward 
the  ground,  hurried  on.  It  was  but  a  few  steps  to  Mr. 
Drummond's  abode,  and  he  was  soon  at  the  gate.  Thetre 
was  but  one  light  in  the  house,  a  candle  with  a  fitful, 
uneven  flame  that  made  an  effect  anything  but  pleasant. 
There  was  a  smouldering  log  on  the  hearth  that  bright- 
ened up  a  bit  when  a  gust  of  wind  came  down  the 
chimney.  The  room  was  almost  dark,  but  still  the 
clergyman  could  see,  beside  the  fire,  a  pair  of  white 
hands  clasped  in  the  darkness.  At  first  they  were  as 
perfectly  still  as  though  they  had  been  carved  marble, 
then  they  began  to  move,  the  fingers  of  one  hand 
drumming  upon  the  knuckles  of  the  other.  Then  the 
hands  separated,  and  became  invisible. 

The  clergyman  was  almost  too  frightened  to  knock 
on  the  door,  until  the  log  blazed  up,  and  he  discerned 
that  the  hands,  in  becoming  invisible,  had  been  simply 
thrust  into  the  pockets  of  the  owner,  Silas  Drummond. 
The  blazing  log  showed  him  brooding  in  silence,  as  he 
looked  into  the  embers  through  the  eye-holes  in  his 
black  crape  mask. 

"  If  only  to  break  the  awful  spell,  I  will  knock," 
said  the  trembling  clergyman. 

When  he  had  done  so,  Silas  Drummond  arose  sud- 
denly, and,  opening  the  door,  bade  him  enter  and  be 
seated.  The  Reverend  Eliphalet  White  did  not  feel  at 
all  at  ease  as  he  accepted  the  proffered  chair.  The  wind 
was  moaning  without,  and  the  windows  rattled,  and  he 
remembered  the  flying  snow  dancing  like  ghosts  in  the 


186 


MA  V&RICKS. 


lonely  graveyard,  and  here  he  was,  sitting  opposite  the 
man  with  the  black  crape  mask. 

"I   trust,   sir,"    began  the    clergyman,    "that  you 
will   pardon   me  for   this  intrusion.      And 
I    trust    that    you    may    appreciate    the 
delicate  nature  of  my  errand,  which, 
\i          I    can   assure    you,    is   a  very    un- 
pleasant one." 

He  could  see  two  eyes  glisten 
through  the  holes  in  the  crape 
mask  during  a  painful  silence  of 
some  seconds. 

"  I   have  been  sent  by  many 
worthy  members  of  my  congrega- 
tion to  pray  that  you  will  give  me 
an   explanation    of  your   habit   of 
wearing  a  crape  mask." 
The  clergyman  felt  greatly  relieved  when 
he  had  thus  delivered   himself. 

"  I  am  a  singularly  unfortunate  man,"  replied  Mr. 
Drummond.  '-I  have  a  mental  peculiarity  —  I  call  it  a 
mental  peculiarity  simply  for  want  of  a  better  name  — 
that  is  possessed  by  no  other  man  on  earth.  I  have 
no  inner  conscience.  If  I  may  so  put  it,  I  am  all  outer 
conscience;  and  my  great  misfortune  lies  in  the  fact 
that  instead  of  thinking  within,  I  think  without,  so  that 
my  thoughts,  being  visible  on  my  face,  may  be  readily 
read  by  any  one  who  chances  to  meet  me.  For  this 
reason  I  always  wear  a  mask,  and  keep  away  from  my 
fellow-men,  until  I  know  that  my  thoughts  are  of  such  a 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  CRAPE  MASK.      /<$> 

character  as  to  bear  the  most  critical  scrutiny.  If  I 
shake  hands  with  any  man,  I  will  thereafter  think 
within,  while  he  will  think  without,  as  1  do  now.  And 
he  will  think  without  until  he  shakes  hands  with  an- 
other, when  the  latter  will  be  afflicted  as  1  am  now. 
I  don't  think  you  would  dare  to  shake  hands  with  me," 
said  Mr.  Drummond. 

"  What !  I  would  n't  dare  to  shake  your  hand  !  " 
replied  the  Reverend.  Kliphalet  White,  feeling  all  the 
virtuous  strength  of  his  good  life  tingling  in  his  finger- 
tips. 

"There!  " 

He  extended  his  hand,  and  Mr.  Drummond  took  it. 

"  Now  look  in  the  glass." 

The  clergyman  did  so  for  a  moment,  and  burying 
his  face  in  his  hands,  said  : 

"  Give  me  the  mask  !  " 

Mr.  Drummond  removed  the  black  crape  mask  for 
the  first  time,  and  handed  it  to  the  clergyman. 

When  he"  returned  that  night  to  his  own  fireside, 
many  of  his  parishioners  were  on  hand  awaiting  his 
arrival  in  great  suspense,  to  ascertain  the  result  of  his 
mission.  When  he  entered  the  room  with  the  black 
crape  mask  on  his  face,  there  was  a  great  commotion. 
Although  his  face  was  not  visible,  he  acted  in  the  same 
mysterious  way  that  had  characterized  Mr.  Drummond. 
He  seemed  filled  with  a  dreadful  boding.  His  wife  al- 
most fainted,  as  she  asked  for  the  explanation  of  the 
horrible  fascination  of  the  black  crape  mask. 

"  Ah,  would  that  I  dare  take  it  off,"  he  said. 


188  MAI'RRICKS. 

He  then  made  an  explanation  of  his  visit. 

"  I  will  shake  your  hand,"  said  Deacon  Briggs,  one 
of  the  most  highly  esteemed  men  in  Scuttle  Hole. 

"  I  would  rather  not,  Deacon,"  replied  the  clergy- 
man. "  1  think  I  need  the  black  crape  mask  for  some 
time  to  come." 

lint  the  Deacon,  either  out  of  what  he  considered 
a  kindness  to  the  clergyman,  or  to  show  the  confidence 
he  felt  in  the  purity  of  his  thoughts,  grasped  the  hand 
of  the  latest  owner  of  the  black  crape  mask,  and  when 
he  looked  in  the  glass  at  the  end  of  the  room,  he  held 
his  handkerchief  over  his  features  until  he  could  hide 
his  countenance  behind  the  welcome  shadow  of  the 
black  crape  mask. 

In  a  short  time  the  mask  changed  faces  so  many 
times  that  no  one  could  be  found  who  cared  to  shake 
hands  with  its  owner,  for  the  fear  of  having  to  ask  for  it. 

For  the  many,  many  years  that  the  black  crape 
mask  remained  the  wonder  of  Scuttle  Hole,  it  covered 
the  features  of  this  man.  It  then  became  a  belief  that 
amounted  to  a  superstition  that  no  man  could  possess 
it,  without  using  it  as  a  screen  for  the  thoughts  that 
burned  upon  his  features.  But  this,  at  least,  proved 
to  be  fallacious.  The  impossible  is  always  coming 
to  pass. 

The  black  crape  mask  has  found  at  last  an  owner 
whose  thoughts  are  of  so  pure  and  chaste  a  character, 
that  they  would  bear  the  sharpest  scrutiny  of  the  severest 
moral  critic.  He  lives  in  a  halo  of  the  people's  love; 
he  is  the  idol  and  the  model  of  all  who  Horv  in  walking 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BLACK  CRATE  MASK.      /,s;, 

the  straight  and  narrow  path  ;  ho  is  at  once  the  joy 
and  the  envy  of  the  Rev.  Eliphalet  White;  he  is  the 
man  whose  mind  is  never  sullied  by  an  impure  thought. 
He  is,  in  short,  Dominick  Funshon,  Scuttle  Hole's  priic- 
tical  plumber. 

A'.  K.  Mitnkittrick. 


THE   RECORDING   SPOOK. 


"'Sweets  to  the  sweet'"  he  would  say. 
"  That  '.<•  what  you  said  to  her  when  yoii 
gave  her  tJic  rose." 


THE    RECORDING  .SPOOK. 

IT  MAY  BE  that  the  brief  statement  which  I  have  to 
make  is  to  some  extent  out  of  place,  coming  from 
me,  a  mere  layman.  I  have  felt,  indeed,  that  it  ought 
to  be  left  to  a  scientific  man.  But  I  think  that,  even  in 
the  incomplete  manner  in  which  I  must  present  it,  it 
may  have  a  certain  intrinsic  interest  for  those  who  have 
given  any  thought  to  the  great  problem  of  what  we 
know  as  the  supernatural.  The  period  which  allows  of 
the  existence  of  a  Society  for  Psychical  Research  —  the 
period  which  pries  curiously  into  our  personal  relations 
with  the  unseen  world  —  must  plead  my  excuse  for  offer- 
ing you  my  small  contribution  to  the  science  of  the 
unknowable. 

The  incidents  which  I  am  about  to  narrate  occurred 
some  two  years  ago.  It  was  toward  the  close  of  an 
exhausting  season.  I  had  striven  for  some  months  to 
perform  that  part  known  as  "keeping  one's  end  up." 
I  had  tried  to  keep  my  end  up.  There  is  concurrent 
and  contemporaneous  testimony  to  the  effect  that  I  did 
keep  my  end  up.  Looking  back  on  it  now,  it  seems  to 
me  that  1  kept  two  or  three  ends  up.  I  kept  my  end  up 


194 


MA  VER1CKS. 


at  afternoon  teas.  I  kept  my  end  up  at  early  morning 
suppers.  I  was  up  before,  and  after,  the  lark.  I  gener- 
ally managed  to  see  the  moon  to  bed.  1  do  not  know 
whether  I  make  this  clear  to  you.  As  I  said,  perhaps  I 
ought  to  have  left  the  subject  to  a  scientific  man.  Any 
scientific  man  could  explain  that  this  sort  of  a  thing  is 
wearing  on  the  most  cast-iron  constitution. 

One   dewy   morn   in   February,    I   slipped   into  bed 
just  as  the  first  milk  cart  rattled  under  my  window.     I 


was  very  tired.  I  was  very  tired,  indeed.  My  eyes  were 
just  closing  when  I  saw,  seated  upon  the  foot  of  my 
bed,  what  I  can  only  describe  as  a  supernatural  visitant. 

It  was  a  pale-gray,  mottled  spook,  about  sixteen 
hands  high.  I  was  n't  afraid  of  it.  I  said: 

"  Hello  !   who  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  'm  a  spook,"  it  replied. 

"All  right,"  I  said;  "spook  when  you're  spooken 
to.  Good  night."  And  then  1  turned  over. 


THE  RECORDING   SPOOK. 


195 


"Where  are  you  going?"  inquired  the  spook. 

"Going  to  sleep,"  I  told  him. 

"  Not  now,  you  're  not,"  said  the  spook. 

"  What  's  to  hinder  me?"  I  queried,  in  a  scientific 
spirit. 

"I  am,"  the  spook  said;  "that's  what  I'm  here 
for.  I  'm  the  recording  spook.  I  'm  sent  here  to  wait 
on  you  every  night,  when  you  go  to  bed,  and  to  report 
to  you,  before  you  go  to  sleep,  every  foolish,  conven- 
tional or  unnecessary  thing  that  you  have  said  during 
the  day." 

I  mildly  intimated  that  he  had  a  large  contract  on 
hand. 

"I  have,"  said  he,  rubbing  his  hands;    "and  I  'm 
the  boy  that  can  fill  it,  too.      Come  now,  young  man, 
roll  over  so  that  I   can  see  you, 
take  your  hands  out  of  your  ears 
and  listen.      The  entertainment  is 
going  to  begin  right  now,  and  the 
curtain  's  up." 

I  groaned.  I  might  as  well 
have  whistled. 

"  Let 's  see,"  said  the  spook, 
grinning  hideously  and  rubbing  his 
hands;  "  let 's  see.  You  met  Jones 
at  the  Club  this  morning.  You 
had  n't  seen  Jones  in  two  days, 

and  what  did  you  say  to  Jones?  Why,  you  said:  'Quite 
a  stranger,  are  n't  you  ? '  Now,  that  was  brilliant,  was  n't 
it  ?  The  edge  had  n't  been  rubbed  off  that  observation 


MAVERICKS. 


in   fifteen  hundred  third-class  boarding-houses,   had  it  ? 
Why,    that   was   the   regulation  joke   in    the   ark  when 
Noah  happened  to  miss  a  breakfast  through  sitting  up 
too  late  the  night  before  inspecting  his  private  stock. 
"  Go  away,"  said  I.      "  I  want  to  go  to  sleep." 
But    he    did  n't  go    away.       He    went  —  he 
went  on : 

"Then  you  went  to  the  Turkish 
bath,  did  n't  you  ?  And  you  went  into 
the  hot  room  —  temperature  200.  And 
you  saw  Robinson  there,  eh  ?  And  what 
did  you  say  to  Robinson  ?  " 

I  said  that  I  did  n't  remember. 
"You  do  remember,"  said  the  spook;  "you  said: 
'  Is  it  hot  enough  for  you  ? '  —  that  's  what  you  said. 
You  did  n't  happen  to  think  of  any  other  way  of  making 
an  idiot  of  yourself,  just  at  the  moment,  so  you  said 
that.  Well,  it  filled  the  bill." 

That  is  the  way  he  began,  that  spook;  and  he 
kept  it  up  until  daylight.  He  did  n't  seem  to  get  tired, 
either.  He  just  kept  it  up,  talking  away  in  that  easy, 
pleasant,  conversational  manner,  telling  me  all  the  idiotic 
things  I  had  said  that  day.  I  rolled  about,  and  tried 
to  bury  my  ears  in  the  pillows.  Then  I  tried  to  bury 
the  pillows  in  my  ears.  It  was  of  no  use.  The  experi- 
ence meeting  came  to  a  close  about  half-past  six.  The 
spook  vanished,  after  making  an  appointment  for  the 
next  morning. 

He  was  on  time ;  he  was  on  time  right  straight 
along  every  night  after  that.  1  never  went  to  sleep  until 


THE  RECORDING  SPOOK.  197 

I  knew  just  how  much  of  a  conversational  ass  I  had 
made  of  myself  during  the  preceding  twenty-four  hours. 
Under  these  kindly  ministrations  I  improved  in  my 
speech.  I  chastened  my  conversation,  and  turned  the 
faucet  on  my  flow  of  language.  And  I  saw  with  pleasure 
that  the  spook  began  to  dwindle  and  diminish  and  grow 
pale  and  peaky.  He  got  in  a  ten  or  fifteen  minutes' 
seance  each  night,  to  remind  me  that  I  had  said  "  See 
you  later,"  or  "  1  should  smile,"  or  something  of  that 
sort,  for  I  found  it  difficult  to  get  rid  of  the  slang  habit. 
But  he  dwindled  —  every  blessed  night  he  dwindled. 

But  one  night  I  came  home  and  found  that  spook 
swollen  to  twice  his  original  proportions.  His  head  was 
bobbing  up  against  the  ceiling,  and  there  was  a  grin  of 
fiendish  malice  on  his  face. 

I  knew  what  was  the  matter.  I  knew  he  had  me, 
too.  That  evening  I  had  met,  for  the  first  time,  a  certain 
young  lady,  and  I  felt  —  as  one  does  sometimes  feel  in 
such  cases  —  without  any  arguing  about  it,  or  making 
any  investigation  into  the  subject,  that  without  her  my 
life  would  be  a  barren  blank,  not  to  speak  about  a  desert 
waste.  I  suppose  that  is  what  is  called  falling  in  love. 
Well,  that  is  what  I  called  it,  a  little  later. 

But  it  was  a  great  thing  for  the  spook.  He  fairly 
battened  on  me  from  that  time  on. 

"  '  Sweets  to  the  sweet,'  "  he  would  say.  "  That  's 
what  you  said  to  her  when  you  gave  her  the  rose. 
Why,  the  girl  must  think  you  a  perfect  imbecile  !  " 

"She  doesn't,"  I  would  explain.  "She  told  a 
friend  of  mine  that  I  was  a  brilliant  conversationalist." 


"Oh,  you  're  a  brilliant  conversationalist!"  he 
would  shriek;  "and  did  the  brilliant  conversationalist 
brill  this  evening?  Not  this  evening.  The  brilliant  con- 
versationalist asked  her  if  she  did  n't  think  the  rooms 
were  very  warm.  And  he  said  that  we  had  been  having 
very  pleasant  weather  for  this  time  of  year,  and  that  it 
would  probably  be  warmer  in  May.  Oh,  you  just  bris- 
tled all  over  with  pungent  epigrams,  you  did  !" 

I  did  n't  care,  though.  I  have  no  use  for  a  man 
who  can  be  in  love  and  not  make  a  fool  of  himself. 
And  I  was  happy. 

And  the  end  came.  There  was  one  night  when 
I  got  home,  and  found  the  spoo'k  swelled  to  such  pro- 
portions that  he  filled  the  apartments.  I  had  to  walk 
through  him  to  get  to  bed.  His  gray,  mottled  sides 
shook  with  hysterical  laughter.  There  was  malicious 


THE  RECORDING   SPOOK.  rw 

triumph  in  his  distended  eyes.  He  pointed  his  finger 
at  me,  and  gasped  out:  "Oh,  what  a  fool  you  've  made 
of  yourself  this  evening!  Oh,  ain't  I  going  to  have  fun 
with  you  !  " 

He  never  had  it.  His  memory  had  got  an  overdose 
of  conversational  idiocy,  and  his  surcharged  brain  gave 
way  under  the  strain.  He  gurgled  and  burbled  for  a 
little,  and  tried  to  tell  me  all  about  it;  but  it  was  too 
much  for  him ;  and  at  last,  with  one  wild  howl  of  im- 
becility, he  vanished  utterly  away. 

That,  I  should  explain,  was  the  evening  that  I  asked 
the  young  lady  to  be  my  wife.  And  it  was  also  the 
evening  when  the  young  lady  said  :  "  Why  —  yes." 

And  what  I  said  after  that  was  too  much,  for  the 
spook, 

H.  C.  Bunner. 


Stories  founded  on  Fiction. 


By  C.   H.  AUGUR. 


lustrated  by  C.  J.  TAYLOR. 


CONTENTS. 

The  Man  Who  Went  A -Fishing, 
The  Little  Store  Around  the  Corner, 
The  Man  in  the  Box,  At  the  Lonely  Port, 

The  Finding  of  the  Finn,        A  Brief  Account  of  Himself, 

A  Night  at  McNaughton's, 
The  Five  Works  of  Art, 
The  Switching  of  a  Kicker, 


The  Style  of  Benjamin, 

Teacher, 

A  Fresh -Water  Affair, 

A  Romance  of  the  Forest,       Cheviot's  Downward  Career, 


A  Summer  Morning, 


Mr,  Stubb  Penn,  Humorist, 


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